The Superpowers
by EverybodysRussian1812
Summary: It's time for the Canadian Annual Road Trip, but this time Russia and America must share a camping trailer for three weeks. Both are tormented by the insanity of the Cold War and their past relationship. Rating has been changed.
1. World Conference

Canada waited at the door of the conference hall, Kumajirou grasped tightly in his arms. The normally calm country was excited, having to use all of his willpower to keep from leaping up and down in anticipation. He'd been doing this for several years, ever since the end of WWII, but _this _time it would be really memorable. This time, they'd all remember the experience whenever they looked at him, and then they would know him. He grinned to himself, his teeth gleaming white. If any of the other nations saw him at the moment, they would be nervous, thinking him insane. But they never even noticed him… Now they would! No more being mistaken for his idiot brother by his friends! No more being accidentally sat on by Russia!

He was broken from his reverie by a burst of yelling from down the hall. After a few nervous seconds, he chuckled to himself. Just England and France arguing. Again.

"Ah, _Angleterre_, why do you refuse me?"

"Because you're a bloody insane Frog, you wine-drinking bastard!"

"And you are no better than _moi, _uneducated barbarous Englishman. But return to Big Brother France and he will forgive you—ah!" This was followed by loud thumping, and some very creative British curses. Canada laughed silently, and Kumajirou poked at him with his nose.

"Who're you?"

"Canada," he replied automatically, fighting against the rolls of hysterical laughter that threatened to come up at a new voice. "The one who feeds you."

The new character had a strong German accent, and did not sound happy. "Alright you two! Enough of this _Scheiße_! Do you want to have a normal World Conference or not?"

France and England chorused pitifully, "We're sorry Germany…"

"Hmph," Germany replied. There was a dragging sound, and a few moments later, an irritated-looking tall fair-haired nation appeared, pulling two other blondes by the collars of their suits. One had long hair and a smattering of stubble on his chin, and the other had short spiky hair and ridiculously thick eyebrows. All three ignored Canada and the polar bear he clutched.

After all the other nations had filed in, Canada jumped behind Japan and Hungary, gossiping cheerfully over some magazine he didn't recognize. He chose a seat that was hopefully close enough to the front to be noticed, but far enough away from all the major nations there. There was a reason for that; not his annoying brother (though that was reason enough), or the constant fighting between England and France. Out of the corner of his eye, Canada could see him. Most nations ignored him, or wished they could, but he was always there, always listening carefully to the proceedings, always smiling. A dark and cold aura emanated from the country, lit only by the eerie purple light that flickered from his eyes. Canada always felt as though he was being watched by him whenever he went up north or to a World Conference, but he knew that now he was watching America. The northern nation gulped, imagining that creepy visage following you wherever you went. Always there. Always smiling.

Canada shook himself. Stop it! He told himself sternly. This goes on, and you'll be as bad as poor Alfred. He sighed. Normally, he'd be glad to be noticed, but when it was someone scary like that… He shrugged. At least his sister was nice… Bored, Canada drifted off into his own little world, filled with maple syrup and polar bears and Ukraine.

* * *

><p>England scanned the schedule, ignoring America's babbling. After this, it was Canada's turn to talk… Canada? Oh yeah, America's brother… He's here? Where? The Brit looked up, swiftly scanning the nations. It took him a little while, but he finally spotted a country with longish, wavy honey-blond—or was it strawberry blond?—hair grasping a polar bear. England observed him, frowning. Apparently, he had been partially raised by France. He didn't look the part; he had a quiet smile on his face and glasses over his pale lavender eyes, and a little looping curl of hair hanging over his face. But he did look an awful lot like America. At that thought, England's eyes went to the superpower he'd raised. America was ranting about "commies", glaring at Russia all the while, who was taking the verbal abuse with his typical innocent smile. The old country breathed a sigh of relief at that. When Russia got mad at America, when Russia got mad, <em>period, <em>it was worse than all of his major wars rolled into one. This stupid Cold War was getting international relations nowhere.

"…And when I _finally _get permission from my boss, I swear I'll nuke you, fuckin' commie, before you nuke me!" America finished, his face livid.

Russia's smile widened, his eyes gleaming. "Why would I ever bomb you, dear America? You know I have other plans for you, _Alfred_." America twitched at the use of his human name. It wasn't like they were intimate or anything, Russia and he; the larger country merely enjoyed teasing his rival. And he did it well—it was everything the American could do to not jump across the conference table and attempt to strangle Russia. He might've done it, too, if England hadn't stood up at that point and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, pushing him down.

"Now that America is done, the next speaker on the schedule is Canada, to talk about—,"

"Who?" nearly the entire room chorused.

Canada stood up, trying to keep his smile innocent.

"Me," he said, his voice soft and unthreatening.

Murmurs passed through the World Conference.

"He looks like America…I thought he'd be taller…what was his name again? Canada?"

Still smiling, Canada stepped up to the front, his eyes on the far back wall. "Hello. My name is Canada, and I'd like to speak about the annual trip all the major nations take across my land."

"Oh, that was you?" interrupted France.

"Don't interrupt!" England hissed, hitting the European nation over the head.

"That's America, England, France, China, Russia, Germany, Italy, Japan, and I," continued Canada as though nothing had happened. "As you must remember, you all received separate campers to drive and sleep in the last few times." Germany snorted. Although Italy had his own camper, he never actually slept in his; the Italian just came over to Germany's camper and slept there. A similar thing had happened with France and England a few times.

"Unfortunately, due to technical issues, we only can use half the campers." Shocked glances were exchanged. "Therefore, each of you will have to share your camper with one other nation. I haven't chosen your partners yet, but I assure you that you will know them in a week, when the road trip begins." Canada gave them all a smug smile, and sat down. The faces of most of the nations were filled with horror, except two. France was edging closer to England, and Russia…

The tall nation smiled even wider, his purple eyes glowing. All side conversations stopped as the World Conference room was filled with a dark chuckle.

"_Heheheh-kolkolkol…"_

* * *

><p><em>Scheiße- <em>shit (German)

Well, there's the first chapter! Please review! This is not my first fanfic I've written, but the first one I've published btw.


	2. Down Came the Pitchfork

"It'll really suck to be the guy stuck with Russia," America said absently as he watched the movie.

"Mmm-hmm," replied Lithuania, curled in a ball on the couch next to his friend.

"I mean, can you imagine what would happen if _France _and Russia ended up together? Or England?"

"…He's not as bad as you guys all think…"

Alfred snorted. "The bastard fucked you up. Multiple times. And beat you." Lithuania didn't respond. "See what I mean?" Lithuania didn't, really, but he kept quiet, his eyes on the TV screen. It was some new horror thing Alfred had bought a few days ago. Both nations were silent for a while.

"This isn't that scary," Alfred said eventually.

"Mmm-hmm."

More silence. This time, it was abruptly interrupted by a loud knocking on the door. Alfred leapt up from the couch.

"I'll get it!" he and Canada shouted at the same time. Alfred got there first. He opened the door to see a female country with short platinum blonde hair, a headband, violet-blue eyes, and…_oh my God_ …_really_ big…um…tracts of land. She was familiar, unsettlingly so. She made him think of Russia—

"Ukraine!" Alfred said cheerfully. "How ya doing?"

The Soviet nation smiled cheerfully. "Fine, thank you, Mr. America."

Alfred laughed. "Don't call me Mr. America. Lithuania calls me that." Ukraine seemed struck by a sudden revelation.

"Oh! Is Liet here? Brother told me to tell him that he's needed back in Russia…" She trailed off, spotting Canada lingering behind Alfred. "Mattie!" the country cried cheerfully, shoving Alfred aside easily, her large breasts bouncing audibly.

"Katuyasha—," Matthew began, but he was smothered in Ukraine's sudden embrace. He grinned into her hair, his troubles for the moment forgotten. The Canadian hugged his girlfriend back, and was about to guide her out of the house, but then he spotted his brother. Alfred was in the position Yekaterina (Katuyasha was a nickname) had pushed him, against the doorframe, gaping at the pair. Blushing suddenly, Canada untangled himself from the embrace.

"I—I'm sorry Al… I thought you'd be mad if I told you… that you wouldn't understand…"

"And I don't," Alfred said softly. Ukraine, a worried look on her face, started to back away. "Russia's _sister_!" Matthew shook his head.

"Look, Al, we've been dating for a few months now, and we're on perfectly good terms." Seeing Ukraine edge out of earshot, Canada dropped his voice. "And look, I know you know about my other relationships, but could you please try not to ruin this one?" His voice fell to a desperate whisper. "Please. It's the first real, nice, _normal_ relationship I've had…"

America's face was emotionless. "Please…" his brother whispered. He gave no response. Canada sighed and lowered his head. As he began to turn, a fist came up and struck him across the face.

As Matthew tumbled to the sidewalk, he heard Ukraine cry his name. She rushed to him with a loud bouncing noise, and crouched over her boyfriend, stroking his cheek in worry.

"Funny. Weren't you having Prussia over until, oh, a week or two ago? Gee, I wonder if he knew about this. He hates Russia almost as much as I do. He wouldn't think real highly of you dating his _sister_!" Alfred was standing on the top of the steps, rubbing his bloody knuckles. Ukraine looked up at him, her eyes tearful. "Oh, I'm sure you had some excuse," he continued. "For both of them. I'm seeing a movie with my brother. I've got hockey practice. I need to plan a party. You _asshole_!"

"Mr. America… you…you don't really think that!" Ukraine cried, standing. "He's your brother—!" She stopped as America stepped down next to Canada, his eyes fixing her in a smoldering blue gaze.

"And I'm sure you know _all about _sibling bonds!" he snarled back. She shut up, staring fearfully at the two brothers. "Hey, Matthew," Alfred muttered, bending down. Canada moved his head, turning his face to stare in fear through broken glasses. "You do know what you're doing here? What you're making me do to you?"

Matthew's eyes suddenly flattened. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm exposing your selfishness… Just because I'm your brother does _not _mean I will do every. Single. Thing you tell me to do." His gaze shifted to Ukraine. "And just because she's _his_ sister doesn't mean she's his puppet!"

Alfred's face twisted in fury. Raising a sneakered foot, he began kicking Matthew. Hard. Canada cried out with every blow. Ukraine had been standing away from them, but at the sounds of pain…

America suddenly heard somebody yelling something in a language he didn't recognize. He paused, looking up. "_Holy shit!_" he yelped, leaping back. Yekaterina was charging him, her eyes blazing with rage, brandishing a _freaking pitchfork_. How the _hell_ had she gotten it? He thought frantically, dodging her swipes. It reminded him of the way Russia would suddenly pull his faucet out of nowhere and start wreaking havoc. As he was thinking this, Ukraine was getting more and more worked up, yelling _"_Відійдіть від мого друга, американського ублюдок!_" _Whatever the fuck _that _meant.

But translating Ukrainian wasn't really something he had the time to do. In battle, Yekaterina really was her brother's sister. Alfred was getting exhausted from constantly leaping away from the pitchfork, while she seemed not to feel any fatigue. He couldn't go on the offensive at all; her body was guarded by the whirling points of her weapon. But he was getting used to her attacks, which were somewhat repetitive. Slashing from side to side, then a jab at his body… A grin spread across America's face. He could do more than just run away! He put on a sudden burst of speed, bending to pick up a rock. He felt giddy from the adrenaline surging through his veins, his mad smile not fading. Slash… slash… jab… slash… slash… He prepared to throw the rock, noting the way she pulled back the fork to jab. Slash… slash…

But before he could throw, Ukraine unexpectedly twisted the pitchfork, hitting him squarely in the stomach with the butt. Gasping in pain, Alfred fell to the ground. Damn it, he hadn't been expecting her to do that! The excitement faded from his body, and he stared trembling up at the Soviet nation. Her eyes, now glowing purple, were filled with hate. The pitchfork was raised, its prongs glinting in the sunlight. It was hypnotic, looking at his approaching death… it wouldn't be a real death, since it was not a real war… but it was still death, blocking out all other thoughts. Matthew began pushing himself up, and seemed about to intervene, but he was entranced by it too. Even more so, for he knew both of them intimately, and could barely fathom the emotions that had changed them in this way… but he could view the result, and it was amazing and horrible and beautiful.

Alfred couldn't close his eyes. The raging face of his brother's girlfriend, and enemy's sister… the sun gleaming on the descending metal… the silent, watching sky over it all… This was where he would die. He would die, not as America, the country, but as Alfred F. Jones, the man. Oh, he would return, but it would be a different Alfred F. Jones, tainted by the death. His life didn't flash before his eyes. That was fiction… But wasn't it all fiction, at this point? All concepts of death? For what writer had made it to this moment of certain death and lived to tell about it? He thought dreamily. Indeed, the situation was so beautiful and terrible he could not put it into mere words. So beautiful… so terrible… Death…

"_Yekaterina! Mr. America!" _Somebody cried out from the house. Ukraine started, the insanity vanishing from her eyes. But the pitchfork was already on its way down, and the most she could do was jerk her hand so the wound would not be fatal. Alfred, hearing the voice, had experienced a surge of irrational hope rush through him, and so he was surprised when he felt the metal prongs pierce his flesh. The shock made it all the more painful. Blood splashed on the pavement, bones and metal crunched and ground together: the sounds were terrifying for the wounded country.

Her frightened face mirroring her opponent's, Yekaterina swiftly pulled the pitchfork back. Alfred collapsed on the sidewalk, blood spurting from a punctured shoulder. She stared at him, grasping the stained weapon. Although he was pale and fainting from loss of blood, and the wounds were deep, they would heal soon and leave no scars. He was a country. He would survive. Matthew came up behind her, his hand on her shoulder. She sighed and hung her head.

"I'm sorry… Mattie… America…"

Matthew sighed and buried his face in her shoulder. "It's okay. He was asking for it."

"Yeah… Guess I was." The two countries looked up at the sound of the pained voice. Alfred was just barely lifting his head, blood trickling from his lips with the words. He grinned weakly at them.

"Mr. America, you shouldn't talk! You're hurt!" A stern voice yelped from the house. Boots rang on the pavement. Alfred tried to turn his head to see, but collapsed with a groan.

"'M fine, Toris…" Lithuania stopped by his friend's head and kneeled, his face worried.

"No, you're not," he admonished sternly. Toris gave a suspicious glare at Ukraine, who was still grasping the bloody pitchfork, and Canada, whose arms were around her. "Come on, I'll get you inside."

Matthew tugged on Yekaterina's arm. "Let's go…" She followed to the car.

The silence filled the car as they drove away. A bystander would have noticed the churning mix of emotions within that silence; anger, embarrassment, sorrow, but predominately guilt. The two did not notice their feelings running parallel. After some time, Yekaterina spoke.

"Was… was your brother telling the truth? About Gil—Prussia?" Matthew's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He dipped his head imperceptibly. More silence. He felt he had to say something, to explain…

"I—I felt… that… well, after so long, I've, uh, wanted to have a, you know, a _normal _relationship," he stammered. He took Ukraine's silence as a cue for him to continue. "I'd tried to keep you as my only—er—_friend _for a little while, but I couldn't do that. It felt empty, with you the only person in my life…" The words came out faster now. It felt good to confess it all.

"When Gilbert came back to me a month later, I couldn't refuse him. We were together for a night. I felt awful, going out with you the next day. I wanted to break up with you. But… but you were my refuge. From Gilbert… Francis… even Alfred sometimes." He shrugged. "So, I stayed with you. It was easy—too easy. You thought I'd broken up with Gilbert and the rest. They thought I'd dumped you. …But now,…" Matthew shook his head. Ukraine thought about this. Silence reigned once more.

After a little while, she looked over and saw his knuckles white on the steering wheel. She said nothing, not wanting to bother him. But when they stopped at a red light ten minutes later, she saw he was still smoldering with anger. "Mattie…?" she asked tentatively. "What is it?"

"It's my damn brother!" he shouted. "He's got no heart! You saw how he treated me! Just because you're Soviet! And just because he's got it in for me! I hate him!" He slapped the steering wheel, then burst into angry sobbing.

"Mattie…" Yekaterina murmured, reaching out a hand to stroke his cheek. The tears of rage were hot against his skin. "You know it'll all work out…" He sighed.

Deep inside him, Matthew Williams called upon the strength of the country, the strength of Canada. His emotion now was human, not a nation's emotion. But he could still be a nation. He used that strength to gather up his anger for his brother, crushing it into a ball of hate. This burning clump of rage was submersed in his cold intellect, becoming a cooling mass of pure vengefulness. He grinned. "You know what, you're right, Katuyasha…"

* * *

><p>Відійдіть від мого друга, американського ублюдок!- Get away from my boyfriend, American bastard! (Ukrainian) (Or something to that effect, it's been a little while since I wrote this)<p>

Hooray! Second chapter! Does anyone think I overdid it? Methinks Purple Prose.


	3. Welcome to the CART!

America rubbed his shoulder, irritated. It had fully healed over the course of the week, or at least that's what Sweden had told him. It still hurt like hell, though. And that was all he needed, he mused, a slowly recovering wound to deal with on top of living with another country for a few weeks. At the sound of Canada's voice softly calling for attention, he looked up at his brother.

"Excuse me? Yes? Everybody? Excuse me…" After a minute or so of this, the nations stopped their quiet chatting and looked up. Canada smiled. He wore a plain tan suit and his hair was brushed. "Thank you." His voice became a bit louder and he announced, "Welcome, Nations of the World, to the Canadian Annual Road Trip!" Scattered applause, growing louder as they remembered what it was. "Now, as you remember, there are two nations per trailer this year, and you will be getting your trailer assignments in a moment." Right on cue, Kumajirou trotted out of Canada's trailer, a sheet of paper in his mouth. Canada took it up, still smiling brightly. "In Trailer 2, there are Italy and Germany…" He gestured to a van. The two nations walked to it with their bags, Germany appearing exasperated, Italy crying out Germany's name in joy. "Trailer 3 is China and Japan…" This pair walked coolly up to theirs, not looking each other in the eye. America raised an eyebrow. "Trailer 4; France and England…" America frowned, not looking at France and England as they went to their trailer, still fighting. Neither he nor Russia had been called yet… unless the commie was getting his own trailer… Yeah, that would be the most logical… He looked up at his brother, satisfied with his conclusion. But when he looked into his brother's quiet violet eyes, that conclusion was negated. Canada's smile widened, almost innocently. It brought a swirl of—not quite irrational—fear into America's heart. "Trailer 5…" His heart beat fast, his breath came short. _Oh God, please don't let me faint here!_ He thought desperately, his mouth dry.

"America and Russia." Three nations spoke it at the same time. Two of them smiled, their hearts cheered at the dark thoughts. To the third, it was a death knell. Alfred all but ran into the trailer, dropping his bags on the floor before collapsing on his bunk. _Shit… oh shit… I am _so _screwed…_ In more ways than one, he realized with a jolt. "Fuck…" he gasped, springing up and dashing to the bathroom. "Fuck! …Fuck me!" He giggled, a half-insane burble of laughter that escaped his mouth. "Shit, don't say that around Russia!"

Alfred slammed the bathroom door behind him, fighting down the mad giggles as he fumbled with the lock. The bolt clicked across just as heavy footsteps sounded on the steps up to the trailer. His hand clamped over his mouth, he listened in terror as the door opened. Russia spoke. "Dear America…" Alfred trembled. Russia's voice sounded innocent, yes, but _what innocence?_ What innocence was left after centuries of bloody history? "Dear America… Where are you hiding? Where are you, dear America? Hmm?" _Another _damn giggle slipped through his fingers. He bit his lips. _Shit…_

The footsteps paused, then began clicking closer. "Dear America… come out, come out…" Russia sang. Alfred fancied he could hear the faint whistling of an object swinging through the air. "_Come out, come out, wherever you are…" _Russia giggled at his mocking joke. _Shit… shit… shit… shit, shit, shit…_ Alfred looked frantically about for a weapon, any weapon. _There! _The towel bar! Pulling aside the cloths draped over it, he called on his superhuman strength and began jerking it off the wall. It made noise.

Russia's soft laughter reached Alfred's ears. "So, that is where you are hiding, dear America?" With a final effort, Alfred pulled the towel bar out of the wall and brandished it like a baseball bat, prepared for the worst. To his surprise, rather than just smashing his way through the door, the powerful nation first tried the handle. Anger rose within Alfred. _So, he thinks I'm stupid enough to hide in a room without locking the door first?_ An idea sparked—he could catch his enemy by surprise. With shaking hands, he reached out and unlatched the door, then jerked it back, raising the bar. He caught a single glimpse of Russia's surprised face and glowing purple eyes before he smashed his weapon right at the other superpower.

Russia was faster than he'd thought. Alfred could feel the bar strike _something_—but Russia had sprang back so quickly, he couldn't tell what he'd hit. The faucet pipe his opponent wielded came up quickly, swinging down at Alfred's head. He brought his bar up swiftly, hearing the ringing noise of iron on steel. They exchanged what seemed like too many and too little blows before Russia finally stepped back, his expression dark. A single trail of blood ran down from his nose.

"…Commie bastard…" panted America, his fist so tight on the bar he imagined there was blood flowing down his palm. Russia smiled.

"Dear America," he asked softly. "Why do you fight so? You know you, and everyone, will become one with Russia someday." As he said this, some of his blood trickled into his mouth. He paused to lick it away, still smiling kindly.

"…You're a fuckin' monster…"

Russia's smile widened. "Am I that much of a monster for wanting friends? Am I a monster for wishing for an end to my loneliness? Trust me, dear America, you cannot imagine… how empty my home becomes…" As he spoke, he lowered his pipe and stepped forward, holding up a hand. Alfred cowered, not looking into his rival's eyes. He raised his bar. It was a warning, "Don't come any closer."

Russia disregarded the unspoken warning. "…dear America…" he murmured, reaching to stroke the little tuft of blond hair his enemy called "Nantucket". Alfred flinched back.

"Don't touch me!" he snapped. "And don't call me that!" He was trembling. Russia smiled. He was so cute, especially filled with fear and uncertainty… Да, this would be fun. _Very much _fun.

"Very well, _Alfred_. But I must confess," he added, grinning. "I wonder; how will you prevent yourself from boredom? I know I brought books, some of which are in English, unless you wish to try your hand at reading Russian… Or we could pl—," He was interrupted by a steel bar hitting him over the head. Snarling in anger, he lifted his pipe and struck in front of him. He was rewarded by the loud _thwack_ing of iron striking flesh. Alfred cried out. Brushing his now bloodstained bangs out of his eyes, Ivan looked down at his downed enemy. At the sight, he sucked in a gulp of air. _Oh no… I've killed him!_ Diving to the ground, he turned Alfred's body over, ripping his shirt open. Tearing his glove off with his teeth, Ivan placed his hand against Alfred's bare chest. He breathed a sigh of relief as he detected the beating heart and the breathing. Sitting back on his haunches, Ivan thought.

He hadn't quite realized how hard this was going to be. _Especially now,_ he mused, glancing down at Alfred. He was unconscious. It would be easy to take him… too easy… Ivan grinned and licked his lips at the thought. He bent down and stroked his fingers against Alfred's skin. The American gave a little shudder, but otherwise showed no response. That was the catch… he _wanted_ to hear Alfred crying out beneath him… calling his name… He sighed and shook his head. After a moment of contemplation, the northern superpower bent down and lifted his rival up. Alfred's head lolled in his arms. Smiling, Ivan brushed away a strand of blond hair falling in his face. _Dear America, _he thought as he laid him down in his bunk. _You may think you can keep yourself away from me, but I will eventually have you…_

Alfred seemed to sense this, even in his unconscious state. He moaned and cried out slightly. Maybe it was a dream, maybe he objected to Ivan leaving him. Ivan didn't know, and, frankly, he didn't care.

Soon enough, it wouldn't matter.

* * *

><p>Yay! Some sexual tension and fighting! Enjoy!<p> 


	4. The Stowaway is an Ass

"Germany~! Germany! GermanyGermanyGermany—!" Italy shrieked, springing up on his friend and wrapping his arms around his neck. Germany sighed and continued making their morning coffee. They'd driven most of the night. There'd been noises of fighting from France's and England's trailer, but, surprisingly, none from America's and Russia's. That was a bad sign. Germany had decided that one of them had probably been knocked out in the fighting the other nations had heard after they'd gone into their trailer. But now, he had more important things to worry about.

"Feliciano!" Germany barked. "Get off! I am trying to make coffee for us!"

"Vee! Germany's so nice—!" With a grunt and a shrug of his powerful shoulders, Ludwig shoved Feliciano off. The cheery nation was unharmed, however, and sprang back up. Ludwig turned around to glower at him and sighed.

"Italy, put your pants on."

"Ve"-ing softly to himself, Italy walked over to his bags and began rifling through them in search of pants. The suitcase was strangely heavy, but Germany had been willing to carry it for him. Germany really was so _very _nice!

Tossing aside a kit of white flags, Italy thought he saw a pair of jeans. Smiling happily, he reached for the waist. His fingers curled around it, and, with a quick jerk, he pulled the pants out. The pants looked too big, though… Italy examined them closely. They were much too large. "Ve?" The Italian was curious. He glanced down into the suitcase—and was shocked to see some nation's ass sticking out of the clothing. The underwear was a flag that seemed familiar—a black, crowned eagle on a white field, with black borders. Frowning, Italy gently patted the ass. No response.

He started shifting the other clothes aside. The ass, he found out, was attached to a pair of long, tanned, rather shapely legs. The legs were attached to a pair of feet, both adorned with cute little chick slippers. "Ve!" he cried happily, and started trying to pull the slippers off.

At that moment, Germany appeared with their coffee. "Italy, here's your—_MIEN GOTT VHAT ZE HELL IZ ZAT?_" he screamed on catching sight of Italy's find. (His accent became much stronger when he was angry or scared.)

"It's an ass!" Italy cried cheerfully, pointing.

_"Ja,_ I can see that. But vhat is it doing in your suitcase, and vhy—," He peered closer. "—vhy is it vearing Prussian undervear?"

"Ve, that's Prussian? Ohh—oh…"

"…_Scheiße._ "

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, all the nations of the CART were gathered in the campgrounds where the trailers were parked, and generally extremely irritated. The news of the ex-nation stowaway had spread like nuclear fire, and nobody but France and Canada were happy. Well, not happy per se, (France didn't want Prussia barging in on he and England, and Canada was reluctant to give up half of his trailer and irritated that someone had snuck onto <em>his<em> trip), but more like they were the only nations who didn't want to send him back. Germany dragged his brother out of the trailer, radiating pure anger. Prussia was still in his underwear and a black-and-white-striped hoodie, and there was an exasperated smirk on his face. His red eyes glittered angrily as he looked around at the gathered nations, and the morning sun sparkled orange on his silver-white hair.

As he was forced up to the steps leading up to Canada's trailer, he caught sight of Matthew standing next to him. His smirk reappeared and he nodded. "Hey Birdie."

"Gil," Matthew replied. He then turned to the rest of the nations, and he raised his voice. "Everyone… I assume you all know Gilbert Bielshmidt? Or the ex-nation of Prussia?" Angry, assenting murmurs rose. "As you all have learned, he snuck into Trailer 2, and he was just discovered by Italy and Germany. Now the question is; what do we do with him?"

"Send the bastard back!" England called.

"In what?" snapped Francis. "Riding one of your unicorns?" England kicked him.

"Make him stay with Canada," someone muttered. Matthew scanned the crowd for Alfred, but he was gone. He fought down a grin, but a hint of fear and guilt tinged his joy. He didn't _really _want to seriously hurt his brother…

Murmurs of agreement traveled across the gathering. Gilbert turned to him. "Guess we'll be sharing a trailer, Birdie." The pet chick he always had with him flew circles around his head, chirping happily. Matthew shook his head.

"I'm sorry; what?" They didn't laugh. They'd forgotten about him already and were returning to their campers. Matthew caught sight of Russia walking up to his—alone. He bit his lip. It was likely America was just sleeping in, but something made him think otherwise. _Aw, maple… Please don't let him get, like, _really _hurt… or killed…_ Gilbert tugged on his sleeve. He followed, his heart torn with worry. But he forgot all that when Gilbert pulled him around and brought their lips together. As they kissed, Matthew reached out and pulled the trailer door shut. It could wait. Everything could wait.


	5. Vodka and Coffee

Alfred groaned. His head hurt. _Shit, how much did I drink last night? _He couldn't remember a thing. "Ow," he said aloud, reaching up to feel his forehead. There was a bandage there.

"Good morning, my dear." Alfred's eyes flew open and he sat up so quickly he bashed his head against the top of the bunk. There was another explosion of pain. He collapsed, but stayed conscious.

"Owowowowowyoubastardowowow…" Ivan sighed. He stood and walked to the small kitchenette in the trailer.

"Would you like some coffee, my dear? There was a… ah…" He tried to remember the name of the place. "Coffee shop." He couldn't. "There was a coffee shop nearby. I bought some coffee." Picking up the two cups of coffee, he walked over to Alfred's bed.

"No. You probably poisoned it or something—!" He was interrupted by Ivan shoving his hand into his mouth.

"Нет. Why would I poison you, my dear America?"he hissed. His fingers stopped moving inside Alfred's mouth and slipped out—reluctantly—and traced down to his chin. "Drink it. I will not have you sitting in bed for a week." He pushed Alfred's face towards the coffee cup. The younger nation wanted to struggle, but for some reason, the way that Ivan's fingers felt on his skin… in his mouth… With only a little moan of protest, he wrapped his lips around the edge of the cup and drank. It tasted… odd… There was a strange fiery taste behind the bitterness of the coffee. The headache was beginning to go away. After another few gulps, it was completely gone, and the old pain in his shoulder was following. He grabbed the cup from Ivan and quaffed it down.

"What's in this?" he asked, amazed at the healing qualities. Not only that, he was feeling as rejuvenated as if he'd had just a regular cup of coffee.

"Some of my vodka." Alfred dropped the empty cup and gave it a distrustful glare.

"Your vodka can—heal?"

"Да. Any vodka from my people can heal _me, _but to affect other countries in that way, I have to have…touched it. Otherwise, they will be affected as by any alcoholic beverage." Ivan smiled. "Well, not _any—_it is vodka, after all." Ivan sat on the bunk across from Alfred, sipping from his cup of vodka-laced coffee. He went quiet, examining Alfred with his bright purple eyes.

After several heartbeats of painful silence, America asked, "Did something happen? You… you look worried." Ivan started, as if broken from a trance.

"Hmm? Oh, да, Prussia appeared. He had snuck into Italy's luggage."

"I thought you liked Prussia."

Ivan didn't respond. Alfred frowned. Finally, Ivan said, "I had him stay in your brother's trailer." Suddenly, he seemed to notice Alfred's confusion. He leaned forward, and whispered, smiling, "I didn't want any distractions."

_Shit, shit, shit,… Damnit… Fuckin' commie bastard! Of course! HE STILL LOVES ME! _Alfred picked up the cup on the ground and threw it at Ivan. "You _bastard!" _he shouted. "Why? Have you forgotten what's happened since then?" His voice dropped to an angry whisper. "Have you forgotten what I told you when the Union appeared?"

Ivan's eyes blazed with anger. "Нет, but just because my government has changed does not mean my heart has changed!" He leaned even closer, the cup crumpling in his hand. "Have _you _forgotten our promises to each other, _my dear?_" he spat.

"No! But those promises were made when I believed you were not the _monster_ you are now, _Soviet Russia!_" The superpower snapped. He leapt forward, face filled with rage.

"_The Union is not the monster! It was never a monster! It was all Stalin's Terror! It was all _his _fault! The tsar's fault! Volodya never had this in mind! I am not a monster! I! Am not! A MONSTER!" _he screamed in Russian into Alfred's face. His hands found his enemy's throat and began squeezing, crushing. He wanted to hurt, he needed to hurt something. He felt something running hot down his face and realized there were tears of rage flowing from his eyes. Alfred's face was reddening. He was crying, Ivan realized, crying from fear and pain.

"I—Ivan—stoppit—," he choked. "D—don't—k-kill—," At the pained little noises, and the use of his name, Ivan removed his hands. Alfred sucked in as much air as he could, gasping for breath. Ivan looked down at his former boyfriend. He bent down and brushed aside a lock of gold hair, kissing him on his bandaged forehead. Alfred's breath caught in his throat at the touch.

"My dear…" Ivan murmured. His arms wrapped around Alfred's shoulders. "…I am sorry…"


	6. In Soviet Russia

WARNING: Sexual references ahead.

***YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED***

Also, two easter eggs for the smart bunnies: can you find the (a) Soviet Russia joke (that one's pretty easy) and the (b) War and Peace reference?

* * *

><p>Alfred was fighting to control his breathing as Ivan hugged him. He didn't want his enemy to know that he still felt the same way, on a physical level, about him. His lungs and throat still ached from the near-strangling, and he was frightened, too, especially when Russia had shouted something incoherently in his face. "No," he muttered. "Let go…" Ivan didn't seem to hear, or care. The strong nation began to push him back further on the bed, and his lips traced from his forehead down to his nose. They lingered there for a moment—Alfred tried to pull away—then he leaned down further to bring their mouths together. Alfred tried to yell at him—he didn't want this to go so far, so soon! He didn't want this, period! Ivan's body pressed into him. <em>He <em>was enjoying this. Alfred growled and called on his superhuman strength—_again._ He needed a hamburger to replenish his strength. With an effort, he began pushing Ivan away. Russia made a little noise of protest. "You're not fucking me, commie bastard—," Alfred muttered. His hands on the superpower's shoulders, he finally forced Ivan off and away from him.

The northern nation had a confused expression on his innocent face, as though he couldn't understand why Alfred had done that to him. "My dear…" he began questioningly.

"Don't give me any of that bullshit!" Alfred snapped. He realized he was panting, his face felt hot, and he was uncomfortably hard.

"What do you mean, _bull_—,"

"I mean something like, 'I was just playing!' or 'I didn't mean to! I lost control!'!" he spat back, his voice mocking Ivan's. "I know what you were trying to do!" Ivan smiled innocently. He reached out a hand to gently stroke Alfred's hair. The younger nation flinched back.

"But don't you realize, my dear, that you _do _make me lose control? Even if I only am 'just playing' at first?" Alfred spat in his face. Ivan sighed and wiped the saliva from his cheek. "I can see this will take some time, dear America."

"What will?" Alfred snarled. "Making me 'yours' again? Believe me, _Soviet Russia_, you're not who you were when I loved you. You're not _him. _You're not Vanya." His blue eyes filled with sudden tears, and he stood to shove Ivan away. The Russian did not protest. "Go. Just go away," Alfred whispered. Ivan stared sadly at him, then turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed to the front of the van. Alfred wiped the tears from his face, fighting down agonized sobs. He half-ran out of the trailer, his breath jumping as he tried not to cry. _I won't let him see me like this._

Alfred felt the tears running into his mouth. He tasted salt. He ignored them and ran up to Matthew's trailer. Just as he was about to knock, he remembered his brother wasn't alone. _Lucky him… his partner isn't like who I'm dealing with…_ He scanned the trailer park. His sobs had stopped, but his eyes felt puffy and there were tears dampening his cheeks. The door to France and England's trailer opened. Alfred remembered how protective England became, and ran.

_Ivan said… No, _Russia _said there was a coffee shop nearby… _He needed a donut. Still running, Alfred glanced at the buildings around him and saw the store he wanted. He stopped, took several deep breaths, cleaned his face, and went inside.

He ordered another coffee and two chocolate-glazed donuts. The Canadians inside were acting lazy, giving him faintly exasperated looks when they recognized his accent, completely oblivious to the fact that he was a nation. He saw his brother in every one of them. After what felt like much too long, he received his order. In America, he would get it much faster, he thought, glad for something to take his mind off the problem. After casually thanking the Canadian, who smiled politely, Alfred went outside and sat down at a table. It was too early for the others to come out. He was alone.

Alfred appreciated this time to think. He took a bite out of the donut, reveling in its sugary goodness. As he sipped the coffee, he involuntarily recalled the taste of vodka in the coffee Russia had brought. It wasn't that bad to drink. But of course, anything connected with Russia would not end well for him, he mused, also recalling how he'd almost been raped. Alfred frowned. Why was he so afraid of the idea, when Russia and he had been intimate before the Union? Well… not _that _intimate. Thinking back, he was still a bit surprised that, in all their years of being close, they'd never actually _done it. _But, of course, their relationship had been to the point where he wouldn't have protested if Vanya had taken that step, even without his consent.

Alfred realized suddenly how close they had came to that point, as he thought back to their last few nights together. They hadn't really been together just before WWI and the Union, but Russia took the formation of the USSR as their "official" breakup, and so did Alfred, to keep things simple. Neither of them wanted to talk about those years—the years after February 1905. He began thinking back to that date, that fateful Saturday when they'd planned to deepen their relationship…

* * *

><p><em>The two nations are silent, not an awkward silence, or a tense one, but a comfortable one, one that makes Alfred happy, which is strange, because normally, in this situation of perfect quiet, he'd be bored. But he isn't, so he's happy.<em>

"_Hey, Vanya," he asks, glancing over warmly at his boyfriend. "You have anything planned for tomorrow night?"_

"Нет._" Alfred knows from years—or was it decades, in human time? Centuries, even? He's lost track—of experience that the cheerful response means "no." _

"_That's good…" Vanya replies with a little hum. Still, it's a little while before the Russian speaks again._

"_Why?"_

"_Huh?" asks Alfred, having almost completely forgotten the conversation._

"_Do you have anything planned for Sunday?"_

"_Oh yeah—no, I don't, unless you want to make plans ourselves." He turns his head on the pillow to grin at Vanya. The expressive lips of the Russian's face curve into a kind and happy smile, almost childish in its innocence. Yet the topic he brings up is anything but._

"_You will become one, _да_?"_

_Alfred starts, but only briefly. The idea makes his heart beat faster, his breath catch in his throat with longing, a terrible longing for this beautiful man, made all the more terrible with the thought that his fantasy _could _happen, his dreams _could _come true… Unable to speak, he nods briefly. The little smile becomes a happy grin, and Vanya pulls Alfred close to him. _

"_Well—not now—I'm not ready—," the American manages to gasp. His imaginings and reality are beginning to merge. The lines blur, it becomes confusing… Vanya nods and simply leans his head over to kiss Alfred. _

_The next night, Alfred waits at his house. He is ready, so ready he can barely believe he's able to wait this long. But Vanya isn't here yet. He frowns, and looks at his watch. They agreed that he'd be there by seven-thirty, eight at the latest. It's a quarter past eight, and Alfred is beginning to grow disappointed. He hadn't spent half an hour preparing himself for nothing!_

_Maybe Vanya's just having trouble with his car, he decides. His car always breaks down, a little too often for Alfred to be entirely comfortable with Vanya using it all the time. He's offered so many times to give Vanya a new car, but the Russian much prefers this one. Alfred will never understand quite why. The problem apparently solved, Alfred settles back on his bed and begins fantasizing. He wonders what it will feel like. He's never been on the bottom before, but he assumes Vanya will have more experience than him. _Yeah… lots of experience… _and _he's much bigger than I am! _At the thought, Alfred trembles, and an interesting sensation travels through the part of his anatomy he calls "Florida". He grins, excitedly, at the thought that the feeling will be replicated very soon, and made even stronger too…_

_But half an hour passes, then an hour. He feels betrayed. What is Vanya doing? Is he cheating on me? Maybe he mistook Canada for me… He grits his teeth. Standing up abruptly, he reaches for his phone and dials Vanya's house phone. The ringtone continues for much too long. Not even Estonia or Lithuania picks it up. He hangs up and calls his brother._

"_Eh? Alfred? What is it?"_

"_Is Russia there?" Alfred replies curtly._

"_Ah… no, he's not… Why?" Alfred hangs up again. Who else could he call?… Germany? Prussia? Both of those, he knew, he'd seen from time to time before Alfred… Poland, maybe? He dials the European's phone number. After a minute, Poland picks it up._

"_Hi. What are you, like, doing? Why are you, like, totally calling me?"_

"_Umm… is Russia there?"_

"_Totally not," Poland says, sounding annoyed. "Do you think I'd be, like, talking to you right now if he, like, was?" Alfred begins to say no, but Poland isn't finished. "If he was, like, over, then he'd be totally trying to make me become one with him. And I'm totally not letting him, like, do that. Why are you, like, asking? Does he, like, wanna become one with _you_?" Alfred doesn't respond. The fact that he and Vanya are dating is common knowledge among most of the countries. "I totally thought so," Poland says, and hangs up. _

_Alfred sighs, puts down the phone, then sits back on the bed and buries his face in his hands. His boss is probably keeping him, he realizes, or something like that. _Why? Why doesn't he try to escape, try to come see me? Doesn't he realize… doesn't he know how much he's hurting me? _Tears trickle through his fingers. He stopped being aroused a long time ago. Alfred opens his eyes, lowers his hands, and stares unblinkingly at a vase of roses across the room. Vanya gave them to him ages ago, and Alfred responded in kind with sunflowers. Now, to see them is painful… He tries to close his eyes, but the tears flow faster. His breathing trembles unevenly with sobs. Damnit!... He hates this! He hates everything, hates the roses, hates Vanya for betraying him, hates himself for believing in him… He collapses back on his bed, allowing the tears to flow freely now._

_When England comes to get him for a World Conference the next day, he finds Alfred in that same position, lying in bed, his closed eyes swollen with tears. America comes to the meeting carelessly, feeling empty, hollow. _

_Russia isn't there._

_The Baltics and his sisters don't arrive either, or anybody else that lives with him. America would feel worried, like the rest, but he's beginning to wonder how much he can feel anymore. Any stimuli that should make an impression on him doesn't, and even if some do, it feels false, he can barely keep up the pretense of normal reaction._

_Finally, someone comes. It's Lithuania. His green eyes, normally sharp, are dull, flat. America sees them as mirrors into his own heart. Lithuania walks up to the front of the room. France, seeing his face, doesn't even allow himself to finish talking and surrenders the floor to the Baltic nation. Lithuania's eyes sweep the room, and he begins to speak. His voice is flat, hollow._

"_All of you are probably wondering why Master Russia has not been present at any functions he has been invited to yesterday or today. The tsar allowed me to leave to carry this message to you all." Murmurs spread. If Russia isn't the one who lets his subordinates leave… Lithuania's voice, even flatter than before, cuts through the rising gossip and silences it. "Yesterday, on Sunday, a protest group marched on the Winter Palace in Moscow. They asked for an audience with the tsar, who was having tea at the time, to demand a minimum wage, workday, and other things… Master Russia was watching them gather in the square from a window in the palace." Lithuania's eyes suddenly snapped back into bright, gleaming focus, only to be smudged with the threat of tears. The emotionless shell of his voice cracks, and the pain of his soul flows through his words. "Master Russia was crying. Th-there was a rifle nearby. He… he picked it up, and told me…" Tears began tracing across Lithuania's cheeks. The Baltic's breath catches and jumps, and the sobs prevent him from speaking. He finally regains control of his voice and continues. "H-he said to me, '_We don't want children who can't play nice, да?' _and—" He shakes his head, as if doubting the veracity of his own words—or he would, if he hadn't seen the horrible deed himself. "And began firing out the window…" Lithuania can't go on. He puts his hands on the table to steady himself and makes a final effort to finish, despite the emotional breakdown. "The snow turned red…"_

_There is silence._

_Alfred feels nothing except that coolness in his cheeks that means his face has gone pale._

_The silence goes on._

_They all—sort of—expected something like it. Russia had never been seen as completely sane by the others._

_It is still silent._

_But not something like this—something awful, something horrible… a massacre…_

_There is nothing but silence._

_The quiet is truly a first for the World Conference room. But then again, so is this—the massacre…_

_Silence._

_Lithuania nearly collapses, and the silence is broken as England rushes in to support him. The elder European nation's face is still stunned. Others come up to give aid. Nervous mutters run through the room. Alfred barely manages to stumble to a chair and sit down in it, staring blankly at a wall. Beyond him, he's barely aware of Lithuania being guided out by England and France, and the rest of the nations slowly following, and a final emptiness in the room. Canada and England come in, and they help him out too. _

_It is a very long time before Alfred comes to his senses. His mind is still tormented with the dreams of Vanya pointing a gun out of a window, into the cold Russian air, and snow stained with blood. An impulse to see him, to know how badly he was affected by killing his own people, comes over him. He gets up—somehow, he's back in his bed, his house; Mattie must've got him there—and dresses. He'd been changed out of his suit; he doesn't know who to thank for that, maybe he did it himself, senselessly, maybe Mattie did it for him… His mind grabs gladly onto these little things to care about, like what to wear._

_He eventually decides on jeans and a woven gray sweatshirt over his simple white t-shirt. Not the red, white, and blue shirt, or his jacket, or the clothes Vanya gave him—too many memories. Alfred drives those memories quickly out of his head, fingering the eagle embroidered in dark bronze thread at the throat of the sweater. He looks at himself in the mirror of the bathroom as he absently combs his hair into the familiar part, making sure Nantucket sticks up jauntily. Little things._

_The airship he takes to Europe is one of the fastest. Alfred spends the several-hour journey thinking about his economic affairs. All the cars that had been put on the road recently had somewhat increased the demand for all sorts of widely used fuel. He'd begun drilling oil wells not long ago, which was very helpful to petrol sales… He chuckles, remembering how soon after he'd started drilling Vanya had put his oil-well plan into place. "I want to keep up with you, make sure you don't get too far ahead of me," the Russian had said sweetly when Alfred had asked about it. A sudden wash of despair, anger, and even worse, that bleak emotionless void, swallows up the kind memory. _He could have been my lover!... Why? Why did he do all that, then just snap like this?... It's all gone now, all of that life. _He feels tears choking him, and turns away to stare out the window, ignoring the gazes of the other passengers._

Can't I for once be normal? Can't I for once act as if I'm a normal American? Can't this thing be about a normal breakup, not a breakup involving the deaths of a hundred innocents?

_Alfred is caught up in the sweep of people leaving when the airship lands. He takes the time to feel irritated towards them, and figure out which train he has to take into Russia, even though such things were long thought of beforehand. Little things._

_Another few hours, and he'll be in Moscow, where Vanya is, and everything will be worked out—he hopes. Such things are outside hopes. He doesn't really believe it will be that simple. But he keeps telling himself, and denying that—denying anything bad. He tries to not even consider the possibility._

_But he remembers the Napoleonic Wars._

_He remembers when all of Europe was stained with blood._

_And he remembers how amused they all were about it._

_He remembers all too well, but this isn't like that—he tells himself. This is different. So he tells himself, stepping out into the cold Moscow air, once again marveling at the beauty of the city, and wishing he'd brought a thicker sweatshirt. Again, little things._

_Alfred remembers where Vanya's house is, which he is thankful for, because he doesn't want to ask any passerby for directions—they are all either pale, nervous workers and peasants who give him frightened looks and scuttle into houses or to opposite sides of the street, or pale, harsh-looking guards who give him suspicious glare as he passes, their hands drifting to their bayonets. The blades look very sharp and well-kept to the civilian, and he shudders as he walks by them._

_Finally, he comes to the well-kept manor house that looms over empty streets. His gaze flashes helplessly in the direction of the Winter Palace, but he steels himself and walks up to the door. The heavy brass knocker gives a terrible boom that echoes through the road and makes Alfred jump, but he needs to swing it several times before someone at last answers._

_It's a Russian he doesn't know; a younger man whom Alfred would call a hussar if it had been a hundred years earlier, with curly hair and a small dark mustache. He gives the visitor a skeptical eye, asks in accented French if Alfred is America, then lets him in after he responds affirmatively._

_The halls seem the same, but Alfred notices the conspicuous lack of Russia's subordinates, and the way his outdated guide is incredibly nervous. The tense atmosphere doesn't escape even the American's perception—that's how thick it is. _

"_The master is here," the hussar says softly, gesturing up a flight of stairs. "The quarters and offices for nations are all on this floor." Alfred turns to thank him, but the young man has already left as quickly as he can while still being polite. With a dismissive shrug, Alfred begins climbing up the marble steps. _

_The hallway the stairs come up to is empty. He hears a snatch of conversation in Russian from below, but it's distant, and fades quickly. Alfred calls Vanya's name softly. His steps echo on the floor as he makes his way towards his boyfriend's rooms. Paintings of Siberian winterscapes and ancient Russian nobility stare down at him from the walls, making the younger nation feel small and insignificant. _So much history is contained in these walls… He told me this house has been around since the Mongol times, and he's even older than that.

_Suddenly, he hears a voice, distant, coming from ahead of him. "Alfred?"_

_It's Vanya._

_Without thinking, he breaks into a run, charging forward, smiling, tears in his eyes. "Vanya, I'm coming!" he cries back, running to the sound of the voice. _

_But then it's the end of the hallway. "Vanya?..." he asks doubtfully. _

_Then—from his right. The doorway a little behind him. "Alfred," replies a voice from behind the door, muffled by the wood and what sounds like tears. Alfred feels tears of happiness and sympathy blur his own vision as he turns to the room._

"_Vanya," he whispers happily, and opens the door._

_He is pulled into an embrace that warms the core of his being, an embrace that smells of sunflowers and vodka and something else he can't recognize. Alfred feels something falling, damp on his hair, and hears a sobbing as he buries his face in Vanya's scarf. His fists clench on Vanya's coat, and he moans in pleasure as their hearts are reunited. They don't kiss, or withdraw, or even speak for the first minute. It is enough for them to be together._

_Finally, they pull apart (they're both so strong it has to be a mutual thing) and stare into each other's eyes. Vanya thinks Alfred looks awful—his lovely blue eyes are red and swollen around them, and his glasses are smudged with saltiness. His hair looks like it needs a wash, despite the fact that most of it is meticulously combed. Alfred thinks Vanya looks even more beautiful than usual—his purple eyes are unnaturally bright, and there is not a single silvery beige hair out of place. The only different thing is the strange reddish-brown stains on the scarf, but they're barely noticeable and only seem to add to his overall appearance. They both feel smiles spreading across their faces and joy bubbling in their throats._

"_Were you worrying about me, my dear? You look awful—," Vanya begins, but so does Alfred._

"_Were you really shut up in your house this whole time? You look beautiful—," They realize they are talking at the same time, and laugh for a little while._

"_You first."_

"Нет, _you first."_

"_Aw, yours sounded more important."_

"_If you insist," says Vanya, smiling, and begins pulling Alfred to a sofa near the window as he talks. "You look as though you were worrying about me, my dear."_

_Alfred nods as they sit down, even though he's a little confused at Vanya's new term of endearment. "I heard from Lithuania at the World Conference. That whole thing—it sounded—,"_

"_Wait—Toris was at the conference?" Vanya frowns._

"_He said the tsar allowed him to leave…" _

_Vanya doesn't respond._

"_Why didn't you let him, or anyone else, go? Did they do something wrong?" Vanya's face is shadowed, his eyes glowing brighter than Alfred's ever seen them. He feels Vanya's grip tightening on his thigh, and decides to change the subject._

"_Yeah, it's kind of amazing you still look… well, amazing!" says Alfred with a little giggle. The shadow disappears from Vanya's face, and he grins._

"_You think so?" With little preamble, he moves in and begins kissing Alfred. His lips are cool, his tongue warm, his teeth sharp. Alfred moans again, kissing him back, their tongues entangling. His fantasies come to the forefront of his mind again, and his hands move to Vanya's hips._

"_W-want… want more…" he manages to gasp, but Vanya doesn't seem to hear. Alfred becomes angry. _He's ignoring me!... Doesn't he think about these kinds of things? Doesn't he know this will… _He withdraws from the kiss, thinking to punish Vanya for not giving him what he wants, like he used to._

_He can't do the things he used to anymore._

_Vanya stares at him, his purple eyes glowing again. Alfred feels a chill run down his spine. There's a flash of white teeth in that shadowed face, but it is not a smile. At least, not what Alfred (or most sane people) would truly call a smile._

_He can't punish Vanya._

_The powerful nation growls, filling the air with the threat of violence. Alfred wants to move away, but he can't—the couch is small, and he doesn't want to make any provoking movements. It doesn't occur to him that he's thinking of his boyfriend in the same terms as he would a dangerous animal._

_Vanya will punish him. _

"_Back," snarls Russia. Alfred gulps. He backs away. "The _other _back." Alfred is confused._

"_Is there 'another back'? What are you talking about?"_

"_GET HERE!" Vanya shrieks, grabbing Alfred's shoulder. He reflexively pulls away and jumps up. At the sound of the "_kolkolkol…" _that follows, he realizes what a stupid idea that was. Vanya stands up, towering over the younger nation. There isn't really that much of a height difference, but Alfred is terrified and Vanya seems furious. Alfred trembles. He thought that Vanya really wasn't the horrible monster the other nations made him out to be, but…_

"_Why?" Vanya hisses. He seems to be having trouble getting the English words out. "Why are you running,… _dear_?" America backs away even more. _He's insane… really insane! _He gulps._

"_V-Vanya," he begins as calmly as possible. "Are you alright? You seem…"_

"_Stop running," Russia rasps. "It is… wrong. You are mine." America stepped towards the door, trying not to panic. _Something's wrong.

"_Something's wrong with you, Vanya… You weren't like this before."_

"_Never. Never be the same," Russia mutters in response. The pain in his eyes draws Alfred back towards him._

"_Was—was it the massacre?"_

_Vanya doesn't nod; he just lifts his head to stare heartbrokenly into Alfred's eyes._

"_Vanya…" he murmurs, and steps forward to place his arms around him._

_There is the sound of a knife being unsheathed._

_Alfred's legs give out from under him, and he falls to the fine Turkish rug. It's suddenly stained with heavy crimson, and he can't figure out why._

_Ivan licks the blood from the knife's blade, his purple eyes glowing contentedly._

"_You won't run away now," he says in Russian. _"Вы не уйдет сейчас."

_Alfred gasps for breath, smelling his own blood all around him. It smells thick and rusty and makes his stomach turn._

"Я так счастлива," _Ivan__says__. __Alfred wishes he would stop speaking in Russian; it's making his head hurt. _"Вы не убегал."

"_Vanya… fuck…" Alfred spits blood from his mouth. "What's your problem? You're scaring me…"_

_Ivan's eyes glow and he steps close to the prone country. The knife hangs casually by his side, glittering violet and silver from his aura._

"_You're not running away," he says, sounding as innocent and childish as he had when they were discussing sex. "You're going to stay with me, you're going to be one with me, and you're going to stay forever and ever."_

"_No, I'm not," America chokes. _

_Ivan's boot rests on Alfred's spine, already lacerated from the knife thrust, and applies slight pressure. "_Да, _you are."_

"_I'm leaving." Alfred makes an effort to get up. Ivan stomps down._

_The sound of his bones cracking still ringing in his ears, Alfred looks up at his former boyfriend. His eyes are wide, like a frightened animal's. _

"_I'm happy," Ivan says, his grin wide. "Are you happy, my dear? You will become one with me…"_

_Alfred can't hear him. His vision is dimming to a tunnel, and he can't seem to make sense of what his senses are telling him. His _back _can't be broken… Vanya wouldn't do something like that!_

_Then he remembers; this isn't Vanya._

_This is a monster._

_His sight fades to black and all sensation leaves._

_He's alone._

_Alone…_

Wake up.

_He doesn't want to._

I have to wake up.

_He's happy._

I can't sleep now…

_No one is asking him to be a hero._

I have to keep Russia from…

_Agony races down his back, and suddenly he can feel his legs again. _Get up!

_He opens his eyes, tries to see through the bloody and tear-streaked glasses for a moment, then decides it doesn't matter and forces his arms underneath him. With a burst of energy, he springs up. _

Be the hero!

* * *

><p>Вы не уйдет сейчас- You won't run away now<p>

Я так счастлива- I'm so happy

Вы не убегал- You aren't running away

Ivan's a creeper, right?

This was my longest chapter- makes it the longest story I've written to date. Hope you liked it! (^J^)


	7. Nuclear Power

Ivan stared absently out the window, sipping from his flask of vodka. He stopped diluting it with coffee a little while after Alfred left. The flask was growing steadily lighter, he noticed, and his thoughts were beginning to feel just a little fuzzy. That made him happy. He didn't want lucid sobriety. He wanted illogical, crazy, _insane _drunkenness to take hold and make him have an excuse for doing anything to Alfred later.

The door burst open and America stomped in, a cup of coffee in his hand. There was a smudge of chocolate on his lip. Ivan looked at him and raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. The younger nation stomped past his vanmate.

"Get in the front," he said. "We're driving to the next camping spot."

"Alright." Ivan stood up and stretched, not putting his vodka down. Alfred turned to watch, against his will, the way Ivan's muscles stretched the fabric of his shirt, pulling it up to reveal an inch or two of smooth, pale skin. He shook himself and looked away._ I think he knows how damn distracting that is when he does that._

Ivan seemed to sense Alfred's irritation and smirked. "Well, my dear, would you care to get the map out? I can barely remember the names of the places we are headed to."

"Whatever." Alfred opened the door to the driving part of the trailer and stopped. "Hey, shouldn't _you _get the maps? I'm driving, right?"

Ivan's eyes widened innocently. "Нет, I thought I would be doing that."

"Well, you aren't. _I'm _driving."

"Aren't you too young?"

"Hey, automobiles were _invented _in _me!_"

"Actually, the first one was created in Germany."

"… Well, I have fucking Henry Ford!"

Ivan rolled his eyes. This was just so _childish._ He took another comforting swig of vodka. Alfred noticed.

"Hey, you're _drinking_! You can't drive!"

Ivan tossed the flask away. It landed in Alfred's bunk, knocking over a bobblehead of some man holding a baseball bat.

"I am not."

"You just. Fucking. Were." Alfred gritted his teeth. This was so _annoying!_ He was very, very tempted to nuke the commie right then and there.

"Well, now I am not."

"How much vodka did you have?"

"Not much."

"By your standards or mine?"

"What are 'your standards'? Vodka is vodka. You cannot change its effects."

Alfred was furious at this point. "Ya know what, _commie? _You can just shut the fuck up right now. I fucking _swear _I will nuke you if you don't shut up right now and let me DRIVE THE GODDAMNED CAR!" he finished in a shriek.

Ivan raised his eyebrows. "Temper, temper, dear America…"

"_SHUT UP!" _Alfred threw himself at the Russian, kicking and punching for all he was worth. It didn't have much effect on Russia, who had survived every single invasion he'd taken to date. Even _France _had only gotten as far as Moscow, and Germany had been invaded and half-slaughtered right back.

After a few moments of Alfred's uncoordinated lashing, Ivan grasped the back of his rival's shirt and removed him carefully from his body. The American scratched at Ivan's hand until he let go, not unwillingly. Alfred crossed his arms over his chest and glared through his glasses. This would have been intimidating to most other countries. Despite how childish America appeared to be, he still was one of the few superpowers of the world. His eyes burned radioactively bright, symbolizing that weapon that quailed every other nation.

Except for the one standing across from him.

Ivan smiled kindly and extended a hand. He placed a fingertip delicately on the sleeve of Alfred's coat. Smoke began rising from beneath his glove. America recognized the smell. Nuclear power. He didn't flinch.

They were each as insane as the other.

Alfred's smile mirrored Ivan's.

* * *

><p>Matthew was cheerful. A night with Gilbert had pushed all his worries to the back of his mind, and he was back to doing one of his favorite things in the world, next to hockey. He loved organizing events, and he was especially proud of this CART. What better way to let nations bond after wartime than bringing them on a road trip? The landscape was lovely, the people were nice… <em>Now I'm being a narcissist. <em>

There was a clattering from behind him, and he realized Prussia was waking up. Without taking his eyes off the road, he wished his lover a good morning.

"You too, Mattie." Gilbert walked up and ruffled Canada's hair. He twitched away.

"Gil!" he protested good-naturedly. "I'm trying to drive!"

Smirking, Gilbert collapsed in the passenger's seat. He peered out the windshield. "Ya know I've never done this before. Where're we going?"

"Some campgrounds, to spend the night. It's near a town, so we can get food, socialize with humans…"

"Oh." Gilbert nodded. After a moment, he turned to Matthew with a grin. "So, you ready to invade some vital campgrounds?"

There was a long silence before Gilbert realized his mistake.

"I-I just meant _campgrounds_! Campgrounds! Not—not 'vital' anything!"

Matthew nodded, hiding his smile. "Of course."

* * *

><p>Wow, this one came up quickly. Well, it's a pretty short chapter. And I had more time to work on it, thanks to a pretty nasty head cold that got me out of school early today.<p>

Also, Gil's Freudian slip is based off one of my own. Please review!


	8. L'amour

WARNING: More sexual references ahead. And PruCan. Somewhat smutty PruCan.

*YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED*

* * *

><p>Alfred was closer than he'd ever dreamed to his longtime enemy, and yet, to his shock, he hadn't done a single thing about it. <em>Not a single thing. <em>He could have started a war a thousand times over, could have killed him a hundred times, but _he'd done nothing. _

Maybe it was the memory of those times past when he could not have dreamed of fighting, maybe it was the fact that Russia would and could willingly slaughter him—or maybe he wouldn't. At the World Conference—what was that he'd said? "I have other plans for you…" Right. Alfred shuddered. He had seen enough of those "other plans" this morning. And the result of that reveal? He'd fled from the trailer, emotionally torn, physically excited. What a goddamn…

As Alfred was struggling with these thoughts, Ivan was examining him coolly over his newspaper. It was a Russian newspaper. He'd begun reading it in the hopes that it would bring him back to his homeland, but all it did was make him feel homesick. So instead, he took to observing his former love. _Well—perhaps not entirely _former. There were those moments, when he felt that familiar insanity gripping him, that he simply _needed _the American in the most carnal, primitive, _delicious _way. And even now, he was beginning to entertain fantasies that were quickly pushed away by the rational part of his mind, but less rational parts (of the body as well as the conscious) tended to disagree.

Finally, America seemed conscious of Russia's eyes on him. He looked up, glaring. He seemed somewhat surprised at what he saw. "You're wearing glasses," he said after a long pause.

Ivan nodded. "Да."

Alfred didn't know how to respond. His first thought was, _You look super cute in them. _Then he realized how ridiculous that sounded, with their relationship as it stood. Then he noticed the way Ivan seemed to be looking at him, almost expectantly. He wondered what Ivan would say if he insulted the glasses. _It would not end well. Maybe I should accuse him of copying me?... _

"Well?" Ivan interrupted. "Do you not like them? Should I take them off?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm, as if _Alfred's _opinion was all that mattered.

"Oh, no," Alfred replied absently, not picking up on the veiled mockery. "Keep 'em on. They're cute."

_Ah-hah… _Ivan felt that smile spreading across his lips. Alfred suddenly realized what he'd done. But there was no taking it back now…

"Thank you." Ivan nodded and went back to his reading. Alfred punched himself in the head multiple times. He decided to, for the moment, to throw his problems to the wind and just lose himself in admiring the Russian.

Ivan wasn't wearing his usual coat, but instead he had on a black t-shirt and a black-trimmed blue sweatshirt, with sleeves down to his elbows. Alfred had seen him in this before, and he never ceased to be amused by the little dark bow connecting the lapels of the jacket. The black shirt really went well with his light skin, scarf, hair, and pants. And the glasses were really cute. Alfred smiled happily, the simple fashion admiration bringing him back to those days long ago…

"_Ah! L'amour !" _Alfred looked up, startled. France. The European nation was grinning happily at the pair, his cheeks bright and flushed. The American glowered. Ivan continued reading.

"What the hell are you talking about?" America snapped, adding, "Remember, I don't speak French."

"_Mais, le français est le langue de l'amour. _You silly American, didn't Arthur teach you anything?"

"Speak. English," Alfred said through gritted teeth. He stole a glance at Russia—_still _studiously ignoring France! How was that possible?

"Ah!" cried France suddenly. Alfred whipped his head back.

"What?" France was pointing at him, grinning broadly.

"I saw that!"

"Saw what?"

"Saw you _look at him!_ Don't deny it, America; I saw that surreptitious _glance _at him!"

Alfred was beginning to get irritated. Ivan was having a harder time ignoring his former ally. The American asked, "Will you stop dancing around the point and tell me what the hell is going on, ya fucker?"

France stopped smiling and looked at him with shrewd eyes. He thought for a moment, smirked, then leaned close, his lips tight with barely suppressed amusement, and burst out, "I know it! I know you two are in love! What a gorgeous romance—you, the young, proud prince, and him, the terrifying, insane king! How crazy! How wonderful!" He laughed, that strange, deep, joyful French laugh that terrified so many.

Alfred and Ivan were far from being terrified, however. Alfred, livid, was standing, his face twitching with rage. Ivan was continuing to hold the newspaper, though the paper was getting wrinkled around his fingers, and his face was deathly pale.

"Wh-what the hell are you…" America gasped, barely able to speak through his anger. Russia stood, his lower jaw beginning to tremble. He reached out and seized Alfred's shoulder.

"You will _not _speak to—not speak of me in that way," he said, his voice tightening. "If you do such a thing again, _Francis, _I will kill you." He turned away from France's terrified face and began walking with quick, angry steps towards the trailer.

Alfred didn't struggle when Ivan began dragging him away; he was so preoccupied with his anger at France that he sincerely believed his rage was Ivan's reason for carrying him off. He sensed Ivan was having trouble controlling his own emotions, too, but he was, again, too enraged at the Frenchman. He was so furious that he didn't notice when Ivan pulled him into the trailer, slammed the door, and shoved him up against the wall until Ivan's face moved close enough to his that he began to sense a violation of personal space.

"Hey… Russia… what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I am doing?" Ivan snapped back, his fists tightening on Alfred's wrists.

Alfred's eyes began to glow. "It looks and… uh… feels like you're trying to fuck me. As anyone could tell you."

Ivan smiled. "Then why did you ask?" As he spoke, his body kept pressing up into Alfred's. The American felt the beginnings of something he'd rather not confront. _Damn Florida…_

"It was a rhetorical question, damnit!" Alfred was beginning to feel panicky. His next sentence came out in a desperate whimper. "And look, I don't wanna become one with you anymore, so will you please stop raping me? Or at least trying to?"

"Don't want to become one anymore?" Ivan repeated. _He's made a mistake_. "Are you sure? I thought you said you liked my glasses…"

Alfred felt tears coming into his eyes, and not from the pain. "N-no… Why are you doing this? I don't wanna become one… Not now…" With trembling hands, he reached up to Ivan's face, and carefully removed the reading glasses. Now he could see his former love's eyes better. They were glowing an even brighter purple now.

Ivan smiled slightly. "'Not now'? Does that mean you will be willing later?" Alfred felt the fear creeping down his back, making him want to run and hide, or fight—and then die. He swallowed. _Nah—I think I'll just wait for him to get over his lust… _

"No—unless by 'later' you mean after you're not… a commie. Anymore."

"I don't see that happening anytime soon." Russia shoved Alfred further up the wall, forcing his legs apart with his hips. Ivan then twisted his arms to pin him to the wall. He ignored the agonized sobbing of his victim, his entire mind taken over by desire. America tried to kick him, and Ivan twisted his arms again. Alfred screamed, a horrible sound that penetrated Ivan's half-drunken fog of insanity. Part of him cringed at the sound of pain, but another part enjoyed the sadism. "Does it hurt, my dear?" he murmured, allowing his fingers to drag over the American's body.

"My—my shoulder…" Alfred sobbed, whimpering. Ivan slipped the aviator's jacket off him, and began exploring his torso again with his hands.

"Here?" He pressed Alfred's left shoulder. It did feel somewhat tender. Ivan pulled the sleeve up, briefly admiring the smooth skin around the healing wound. It was red, especially from the twisting of his arms, and there was a sort of scabbed-over bruise. No, there were two. Ivan frowned. He had seen wounds like this before—a pair of puncture wounds, a distance apart from each other… "What did this to this to you?"

Alfred was barely conscious, and therefore unable to answer. Ivan's scowl darkened. He gently shifted America's body in his arms, provoking a small babble of protest, and walked him over to his bunk. His mind now distant, he placed his vanmate in his bed and stood up, thinking. Alfred stared up at him with wide eyes.

The American watched him leave with conflicting emotions. The throbbing pain from his shoulder was impeding his ability to think clearly, for the moment, but he was still able to wonder about the incident. Alright, so he evidently still loved Russia. But it felt… sort of different… He couldn't explain it. At the moment, he really hated Ivan for hurting his shoulder even more. _And again with the rape? Why can't he ever be polite, and _ask_, about that sort of thing? I obviously don't want to become one with him! Bastard! _But he felt tears blurring his vision again, and he realized he still had Ivan's glasses clutched in his hand. He remembered those burning purple eyes behind the glasses, and he sat up carefully to look at them. As he did, he felt something metal knock against his leg. Ivan's flask of vodka. Alfred stared at it.

_He's not fully to blame for it, I guess… He must have been drunk… And then, he spiked the coffee before the first time… Damnit… Why does it have to be this hard? _The tears escaped his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and with a swift, decisive movment crushed the glasses.

* * *

><p>Gilbert had forgotten how <em>good <em>Canada was. His skin was soft and warm, his hands were dexterous, and _God _he could kiss. And get fucked. He was just _good. _

"C'mon Gil—," Matthew panted. "No one's here—,"

"Someone could come," Gilbert muttered. "I'm not sure about having to get dressed again—,"

"I have my bathrobe, and you don't have to take everything off—,"

"I guess," Gilbert said, his mouth leaving Matthew's neck and coming up to kiss him on the lips. As he did so, he slipped his hands up under his lover's hoodie, under which there was nothing. After a little bit of exploration, he found his nipples, and began rubbing them until they became hard. Matthew moaned, tugging at Gilbert's pants. Gilbert briefly removed his mouth to slide the hoodie up and off Canada's head. Matthew emerged with slightly tangled hair and eyes filled with lust. Smiling, he reached up to remove his glasses, then pulled Gilbert down on top of him.

Gilbert felt that his pants were growing too tight, but he wasn't entirely ready yet. He hooked his fingers into Matthew's belt loops, then jerked the pants down and off. His body was as beautiful as it had been the night before. Matthew moaned again as Gilbert touched him, spreading his legs. The sight was enough for Gilbert, and he allowed Matthew to unzip his jeans. They pressed themselves together, feeling the pleasure and pain immersing them.

There was a knocking at the door.

Gilbert ignored it, pushing harder. Their emotions flowed in concert, lust, love, pleasure… Matthew couldn't remember anything else except them, couldn't remember anyone else except Gilbert. Alfred was a distant memory, France was just a face in the crowd, Ukraine didn't exist.

The door seemed to implode. There was a blast of freezing wind, and Russia walked in through the wreckage, grasping his pipe in one hand.

The pair froze.

"Oh shit," Gilbert said.

"Maple…"

Ivan ignored the obvious implications of what they had been doing before he walked in—Canada naked, Gilbert on top of him—and went straight to the point. "What happened to America?"

Canada blushed, wishing he could make their previous activity less obvious. "Eh, when?"

"His shoulder is wounded. Why?" Gilbert felt incredibly nervous. He'd already escaped from Russia for this, and he definitely didn't want to end up in the Soviet Union before the trip was over.

"Oh… eh… Ukraine stabbed him. He tried to beat me up."

Russia's eyes glowed. "Is that so?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. He selected one of the numbers on speed-dial. He didn't have to let it ring long.

"Toris? Can you get me Ukraine?" There was a brief silence. Gilbert and Canada stood up. He glared at them.

"Yes, this is Brother," he said in Russian into the phone. Ukraine had answered. "Why did you stab America?"

"I'm sorry," Yekaterina sniffled. "He… he was beating up Matvey…"

"I know. It's a problem…"

"I'm very sorry…" Canada tried to creep into the bathroom, Gilbert slowly following him. Russia noticed and glowered, causing the air temperature around the pair to drop about ten degrees, completely eradicating any thoughts of sexual diversion.

"Do you want to be starved again?" He switched to French in order to make some impression on his eavesdroppers. "If you ever injure one of my lovers again, especially in such a problematic way, it will be _problematic _for you too." He hung up and walked out, leaving Canada and Gilbert to stare wide-eyed after him. Gilbert was the first to recover.

"From now on—only at night."

* * *

><p><em>L'amour- <em>love (French)

_Mais, le français est le langue de l'amour- _But, French is the language of love (French)

Hooray! Still more sexual tension and near-rape, followed by a good heathly dose of PruCan. I'm seeing a pattern here...

Why the PruCan? I honestly don't know. Maybe the Trekkie within feels this needs a good subplot. And maybe I just really want to write something sexy when I don't think Ivan and Alfred are up to that point yet. And I am coming to that point! And it shall be even sweeter to write for the wait! (And possibly read, but I don't know if it'll be that good.)

Please review! Thank you!


	9. I Love You

WARNING: Again with the yaoi-ness.

*YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED*

* * *

><p>It was nighttime. The nations were returning from jaunts to the town. Canada had bought a new door for his trailer, and now Germany was installing it, to the excitement of his brother. Matthew was happy to ignore them, and went looking for America.<p>

He found Alfred chatting with England at a picnic table. England looked somewhat drunk. "Hey, Alfred?" Matthew asked softly. Both ignored him. "Alfred?" he said, a little louder.

"Yaah, you donnow anythin' 'bout yer own bloody history!" England was yelling. "Ev'ryone knows ya died in yer bloody Civil War!"

Alfred laughed, a bit too loudly. "Nah, but I got better, 'member? After that, I killed the Confederacy, stupid!"

"_Alfred!" _Matthew shouted.

"Yer a bloody fool—"

Matthew, boiling with rage, grabbed Alfred's shoulders and began shaking him. "Alfred! Shut the hell up and listen to me! This is important!" England blinked dully at the two of them.

"Eh?—Why are there two of you?—"

Matthew ignored him and yelled in Alfred's face, "Why didn't you tell me you were fucking Russia? You stupid idiot!"

Alfred's eyes, suddenly sober, were wide with confusion. "What? I'm—Ivan's not—there's—I'm not having sex with Iva—Russia!"

"I believe that like I believed you broke up with him because of the Union."

Alfred didn't meet Matthew's gaze. "Mattie, that was the only reason…" he muttered.

"When you came back to the World Conference after Bloody Sunday, what did you say? Russia's gone insane, and he killed you."

Whatever Matthew had been excepting after telling his brother this—something he'd never even revealed until now—it wasn't what Alfred did. America seemed to collapse, sobbing. He reached up to put his arms around his brother's neck.

"He hurt me," he whimpered. "He tried to rape me, twice…"

Matthew embraced Alfred, whispering, "I can move you, you can come into my trailer, or England's…"

Alfred stared into the night. He could do it, he could leave Ivan and all those awful feelings behind… And Matthew was forgiving him for hurting him. _Yes! _He wanted to scream. _Get me away from him! _But… for some reason… he couldn't do it. He remembered the love in Ivan's eyes as he kissed him, and the anger when he saw the wound. His hand stung from the glasses he'd crushed, and he realized denying those feelings had been a mistake. France had been right. He really loved him… The realization was a warm happiness inside him.

"No," he said.

"What?" Matthew said.

"No," Alfred said, louder, firmer. "I'm staying with him. I love him…"

* * *

><p>Ivan kicked the base of the phone booth in irritation. All this time, just a stupid dial tone. Apparently Switzerland's famed neutrality kept him from answering the phone. This was the second time he'd called the European country, still with no response. He cursed under his breath.<p>

"Yo. Russia…"

Ivan turned. Prussia, his eyes glittering red with amusement. "Go away," Ivan said.

Gilbert frowned. He had _so much _to talk about with Russia! Like, now that he was having sex with America—

"I said, _go away,_" Ivan repeated menacingly. His eyes flashed, a frightening purple that lit up his shadowed, scowling face. Gilbert gulped, but didn't move.

"Ah! Gilbert! I wanted to talk to you!" The sudden voice made both of them jump. Gilbert turned to see a blond-haired old friend.

"Francis!" The pair laughed, embraced, kissed each others' cheeks, and groped vital regions. Ivan watched with a raised eyebrow, then turned back to his call—and his new flask.

Francis and Gilbert walked back towards the trailers, chatting.

"It's good you didn't get killed by him—that almost happened to me earlier today, if you can believe that!"

Gilbert laughed. "Yeah, he walked in on Birdie and I—that's why the door's broken—which sucked, 'cause, well, you know what Mattie's like in bed…" Both laughed harder, Francis smiling nostalgically. "Oh, that reminds me—did ya know Russia's fucking America now?"

Francis paused, thoughtful. "_Non, mais… _I did notice that America seemed to be a little bit in love with him—which was when Russia tried to kill me."

"I was trying to talk to him about it. But he's being Mr. Antisocial now, of course…"

"Why don't you mention it to America?"

Gilbert's chick flapped its wings musingly. "Hmm… well… good idea." He turned to France, eyes sparkling again. "D'you think I should tell him how good Russia is?"

* * *

><p>Alfred walked up the steps to the trailer door, humming "The Star-Spangled Banner" to himself.<p>

"Hey!" came a German-accented voice from the darkness. "America! I got something you should talk about!"

Alfred turned carefully. "Prussia," he said slowly. "What do you want?"

Gilbert's red eyes glittered faintly. "Come out here and I'll tell you." As Alfred hesitated, he said, "I'm not armed. And now I'm human, so I can't do anything to you. Remember?" There was a hint of bitterness in his tone—it was the Allies that had taken away his strength and status as a nation, though he would still be immortal as long as people remembered East Germany.

Alfred cautiously walked out into the clearing. "What?" he asked a little more coldly than necessary.

"Well… it seems… invasion…" Gilbert seemed to be having trouble getting tactfully to his point. He decided to screw tactfulness. "I heard Russia's fucking you." He'd been expecting Alfred to be shocked, to helplessly deny it, but instead the American sighed.

"No, he's not. Not yet at least. You can ask Mattie about it. I told him the truth."

Gilbert blinked. "He-he's not? But-but… I heard him say… I heard him say you were his lover!"

Alfred shook his head. "I love him, and he loves me, but I'm not quite ready to have my vital regions seized at the moment. Especially forcefully, which is the way he seems to be going."

"Oh." For several moments, it was the wisest response Gilbert could make. He finally came up with, "Well, you don't know what you're missing then."

It was Alfred's turn to blink. "Excuse me?"

Gilbert grinned. He finally had the upper hand! "Well, all I can say is, you haven't been knocked up until Ivan does it."

"But—I've never been done like that before!" Alfred protested. Gilbert winked lewdly.

"What better way to start, then—the largest country! Centuries of experience!" With such elegant parting remarks, Gilbert flounced off into the night.

Alfred stared confusedly after him, then went back to the door to open it. The lock was stuck, and he struggled with it for a moment. A black-gloved hand reached over his shoulder, gently covering his own.

"Let me help you with that, да?" Alfred felt his heart beat faster. With a few deft movements, Ivan opened the door and pushed it open. A guiding hand on Alfred's hips, he pushed him into the trailer, never letting himself lose contact with the American. It was a wonderful, indescribable feeling.

_I love you. _But Alfred couldn't say that… he just couldn't. "Ivan… I…"

Ivan hugged him close, his breath moving strands of Alfred's hair. "Да?"

"I…" Alfred tried to make the words pass his lips. It was so hard, now, with Ivan standing right there, close enough to touch… or kiss.

So that was what he did.

He turned his body, twisting himself so he could look directly at Ivan. Ivan shifted his hold on Alfred, and, sensing his intentions, bent his head closer. Alfred realized, again, how lovely he was, then leaned forward to touch their lips together.

As soon as the slightest contact was made, Ivan grabbed him and crushed their faces together, filled with joy at this—the return of Alfred's love for him! Meeting only a slight resistance from the American, he pushed his tongue inside his mouth and started exploring it. Alfred's body was quivering, and Ivan realized again how much he got aroused by these sorts of things. He lifted America, bending him back slightly so he could reach his neck.

Alfred suddenly felt Ivan's mouth leave his own and begin moving down his chin. The Russian's sharp teeth began nipping at his skin, and Alfred trembled even more. The quick little bursts of pain rushed through his system, making his heart pound and Florida harden. The ceiling above started to fade as he gasped for breath, Russia's teeth fastening on the base of his neck. The bites grew stronger, more erratic, like Ivan was losing control as well. Alfred thought he felt blood on his neck. But he didn't care, it just felt so _good _to be with him again.

Ivan noticed the blood and moved his mouth again to suck it off, admiring the almost-sweet taste. His tongue probed the small wounds, and Alfred gave a little cry, either of pain or pleasure. Or perhaps both. Ivan didn't care, and sucked harder at his neck. He felt a little chain around the base of the neck, and placed his lips curiously around it. He traced down to where it disappeared into his shirt, and with a little jerk, pulled it out.

It was a little golden cross, sparkling in the light. Ivan wondered about it briefly, then dropped it and returned to kissing him. He'd ask Alfred about it later.

Finally, Ivan seemed to tire of biting and licking his neck and just nuzzled the crook between Alfred's neck and shoulder. "Bed," he muttered. Alfred seemed to wake up.

"No," he murmured without opening his eyes.

"Да." Ivan moved his head away and rubbed his fingers along the bottom of Alfred's chin.

"No. Don't wanna have sex with you…"

"I love you."

Alfred opened his eyes to look straight into Ivan's. There was no insane glow to them, no drunken flickering. Just pure, truthful love. And lust. Alfred felt the same, but he couldn't say that. _He's so unlike me…_

"Ivan… I… I don't think we can talk about this just now," he said honestly.

"Why?" The Russian replied petulantly.

"Well… for one, that was, y'know, a _really hot _kiss, and I can't think of anything without my libido getting in the way," Alfred said, smiling.

Ivan gazed innocently at him. "But why not, then? Why do you not want to become one, if you are ready to?"

Alfred stared into his eyes, feeling his soul writhe in turmoil. _That's the million dollar question, Ivan. _Why indeed? He loved Ivan, really did, and felt fully aroused by his proximity, but… "I don't want to say I love you until I know that you do too, with all of you, and not just the part that's sane." The words slipped out of his mouth involuntarily, and he could only watch as they took effect.

Russia looked confused at first, then slowly doubtful, until finally a sort of understanding appeared on his childish face. "Okay," he said. "I understand…my dear."

Alfred nodded, then allowed Ivan to carry him to his bed. As he was set down, Alfred slipped off his jacket and then, making sure his lower body was fully hidden beneath the covers, pulled off his jeans. Ivan watched those actions with interest, but didn't make any motions. Finally, as Alfred lay down and took off his glasses, Ivan bent over him to kiss him on the forehead. "I love you."

Alfred closed his eyes to keep Ivan from seeing the love in his eyes. He tried to get the words out, but he choked again and lay silent.

* * *

><p>Okay, here's the ninth chapter! Please tell me if you think the quality's slipping-I got this one out so fast for you, I worry that I'm not making sure that my writing's up to par. And that would suck. It would be like J.K. Rowling or Erin Hunter, how their books started being less good after they got popular and people liked them...<p>

Enough of my rambling- this was a neat chapter to write. Please tell me what you think of it!

And also, since this and The Change are the only stories I have up at the moment, I'd be happy to write a little oneshot if anyone suggests a plot/pairing (except RoChu. I hate RoChu, for some reason). Please give any suggestions in the reviews!


	10. Kamchatka and Florida

WARNING: Florida, Kamchatka, and reference to the condom episode...

*YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED*

* * *

><p>"Alfred, is your grasp of geography as bad as England makes it out to be?"<p>

Alfred looked up from his coffee. They'd been on the road for three days now. He'd managed to prevent any _incidents_ with Russia, thankfully… France and England, and China and Japan, were a different story. There had been an _incident_ that raised the question of China's gender. Yet again. America had not been there for that one, but he'd heard that it involved sake, Japan, and England.

"Well… I don't know what you mean by that," he replied carefully. Ivan was smiling pleasantly at him.

"Could you tell… hmm…" Ivan appeared to think for a few moments. "How large is _Florida _compared to other nations'… features?"

Alfred quickly put down his coffee, fighting against the urge to spit it out all over the table. "Umm… Well… I know that it's bigger than the Eiffel Tower… and Big Ben… _not _bigger than… Canada's… whatever."

Ivan raised his eyebrows, pouting slightly. "Is it bigger than Kamchatka?"

"What?" Alfred rarely felt stupid, but he definitely didn't want to appear so in front of Ivan. "What's Kamchatka?" Ivan's eyes suddenly glittered with… something, and Alfred added quickly, "I mean, I can guess _what _it is, but I don't know if Florida's bigger than it or not."

Ivan leaned across the table, still smiling cheerfully. "Do you think we should check?"

"Sure!" Ivan grinned and reached out to grab Alfred's wrist, but America suddenly sprang up. "Let's find a map!" he yelled, running out the door.

Russia stared mournfully after him. With a final sigh and shrug, he followed Alfred out.

There were multiple nations gathered in the park between the trailers. Canada and Prussia, France, Japan (looking somewhat hung over), Germany, and Italy. Alfred was dashing around, asking questions of every country. Most gave him irritated looks, but Italy started babbling cheerfully. Russia went up to them to listen in. Germany glared at him, blue eyes flashing. Ivan gave him a pleasant, somewhat contemptuous smile. Germany might be a good country—strong in military, intelligent—but Ivan hated him. Even before he went insane because of his cruel boss, his personality was really annoying. He didn't seem to understand that plans _never _went the way they did on paper…

"…So, I used to love making maps—during my Renaissance—but now they're all out of date, ve. But England makes really great maps! He used them a lot when he was trying to bomb Germany and when he was trying to take over the world, I remember. Ve…" Italy started to continue on another topic, but America was dashing over to England's trailer. With a final glare at Germany, Ivan followed.

England glanced up when Alfred came in, the door slamming loudly as he entered. "Hey, dude, England, can I check out some of your maps?" England put down his morning tea and gave a suspicious glare.

"My maps," he said evenly. "Why do you want my maps?"

"Russia wants to compare dick sizes."

Ivan came in at that point. "I never said that."

Alfred grinned at him. He was acting more like himself once he had become acclimatized to living with Russia. England was still glaring, but he let out a sigh and got up to get some sheets of paper out of his bags. After a few moments of sorting, he pulled out a slightly faded one and put it on the table. Ivan picked it up and started unfolding it, while Alfred leaned over to look at England's maps.

"Wow-w—You have maps of, like, every country. Isn't that kind of creepy and stalkerish?" England's glare factor increased tenfold.

"Alfred, here." Ivan distracted them before it could escalate into—whatever. He shoved the map at America. "See, there's Florida—"

Alfred grabbed it and looked around at the Russian geography. He finally found a large peninsula on the Pacific coast. He glanced at Florida, then back at Kamchatka, and was silent for a long while.

"Oh my God, it's like twice as big as Florida."

Ivan looked at him with amusement. England came around the table to examine the geography. "I'd say it's closer to three times the size," The Brit pointed out. "And didn't you two already establish that… fact… when Russia sold you condoms?"

Alfred looked sideways at Ivan. "You know… my boss never told me how long 25 centimeters was," he said suspiciously.

Ivan put down the map to gesture. "About this long," he said, holding his hands the appropriate distance apart.

Alfred stared for a while, then finally came out with, "And that's an extra-small."

"Да. Did they fit?"

Alfred glanced worriedly at England. "I'll cover my ears," The Brit said helpfully.

Ivan continued to stare expectantly at Alfred. The American finally sighed, looked at England to be sure he wasn't listening, slumped his shoulders, and muttered, "No. …Too big."

"You were too big, or the condoms were too big?"

"The condoms were too huge, goddamnit!" Alfred burst. "It's not my fault, you freaking _giant Russians!_ It's not my fault… Kamchatka is three times the size of Florida!" He glared at Ivan, twitching. Ivan stared curiously at him. "They really were too big?"

* * *

><p>Okay, I think this chapter is just purely for fun. And it was! Fun, that is. If you don't know where Kamchatka is, (a) shame on you and (b) look it up. It really is 2-3 times bigger than Florida XD- Florida looks literally puny next to it.<p>

And yes, I have the feeling that having maps of countries is kind of awkward... Once I had to label a map of Oceania for school, and printed out various maps of Australia. I was looking at them all over my desk, and suddenly realized I felt like a creepy stalker for having them. Is that wrong? I'm not even a huge Australia fan (no offense to Australia fangirls or those who live in Australia).

And the sexual tension will be resolved next chapter, I promise! ^_^ Please review!


	11. A Learning Experience

WARNING: Ummm... for all those getting tired of the unresolved sexual tension, I dedicate this chapter to you.

*YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED*

* * *

><p>Alfred took another swig of his Coke and belched. After a week, America's half of the trailer was beginning to look more like his house, or at least the rooms that he lived in. His clothes were scattered all over the floor, mixed with old soda cans and other questionable items. Russia, meanwhile, had managed to keep his section neat and clean, complete with Soviet propaganda posters hung on the walls and a world map with what looked like campaign plans scrawled all over it in Russian. Alfred should've worried, but Ivan had told him it was well out of date—he'd kept it for "comfort purposes".<p>

Alfred had spent his extra space on a TV, though. And he was watching it at the moment, in his underwear and an old t-shirt. It was sort of late, and he doubted any other nations wandering in. He liked being alone, not having to worry about Ivan or England or anyone else. It was nice.

As his show cut to a commercial, he realized he really had to piss. He put down his Coke and stood, kicking aside another can on the floor. The TV blocked out all noise, and there was a pleasant caffeine buzz in his brain as he staggered to the bathroom. When he got there, he paused. The light was on. Alfred listened for a moment, but couldn't hear anything except a catchy ad jingle from the television. He tried the door—unlocked.

After a moment of consideration, he shoved the door open and realized what a mistake he'd made. The shower was running, and Russia was in it.

He had his back turned to Alfred, and he was running his hands through his wet hair repeatedly. There were a few soap bubbles running down his arms, but they were being washed away quickly. Alfred had always wondered if what was beneath his clothes was muscle or just fat, and now he could see that it was muscle. The pale skin on his back was etched with faded scars from countless battles. Alfred could see a few fresh ones from WWII. The scrawlings of damaged tissue over his skin did not detract from his attractiveness; they definitely added to it. Alfred's eyes traveled downwards, to his ass—it looked great, he couldn't help thinking—and his legs. His legs were powerful, but shapely, with nice curves and cute, but huge, feet. Alfred glanced back up to his ass. He would've loved to get his hands on it, at the moment, with its smooth skin and well-defined muscles—

Then Ivan turned around.

At the sight of his front, Alfred almost melted. There were scars on the front of his body, too, even more, but his skin was still smooth and pale. His muscles seemed to blend together, almost hidden by a thin layer of fat, but they were visible and obviously powerful. His nipples were only a few shades darker than the rest of his skin, and between them hung an odd-looking cross with two crosspieces. Alfred had never seen his neck, but was not surprised to see it be dead white in color. Ivan was staring at him, purple eyes wide and startled. Alfred's gaze moved south and noticed that England's map had been correct—he was _huge. _

Ivan must've noticed the direction of his look and stepped to the transparent shower curtain, pushing it open to look at America sternly. Alfred tried to say something—"I'm sorry, dude—didn't mean to"—but his tongue was tangled in his mouth, he couldn't speak. Ivan stepped out, reaching up briefly to turn off the water, and began walking towards Alfred calmly. Alfred didn't move.

Ivan reached out and put his hands on Alfred's shoulders, applying slight pressure. Alfred stared up at him, not a shred of fear in his eyes. Ivan wondered about that—maybe the American was drunk, maybe he just didn't care that Ivan could, and probably would, hurt him. He was so innocent… and helpless… and adorable. Ivan decided he would hurt him, but in a different way that he would imagine…

The hands on Alfred's shoulders suddenly squeezed, and he was swung around to sit up on the counter. His shoulders were pushed back up into the mirror, and then Ivan's fingers traveled to his underwear and pulled them off, tossing them away. He gave a little yelp as the cool fingers touched him, but otherwise didn't fight—he wanted this _now_, and didn't care that he'd thought differently for years. Alfred began struggling with his shirt, wanting to take everything off, to become fully one with him. Ivan stopped him before he could take his glasses off with a sudden kiss. Alfred moaned as their mouths pushed together, tongues entangling. Ivan's hands squeezed his wrists, pushing his body back into the mirror even further. Alfred felt their lower bodies beginning to touch and gave a hiss of pleasure, attacking Ivan even more. Then suddenly Ivan withdrew, and Alfred couldn't find it in him to protest, because now the Russian's hands were on Florida, rubbing and pressing him in ways that filled his body with arousal. Alfred leaned forward to kiss Ivan's chest, licking the smooth skin and nipping at the scars, sucking gently at his nipples. Ivan seemed to enjoy this too, growling softly like a bear being patted. Alfred found with his lips the weird cross around Ivan's neck and pulled at it, feeling the cool metal soothing his warming lips.

Suddenly, Ivan's hands were traveling even farther downwards, grasping at California. Alfred gave another little cry, and Ivan paused. "Have you done this before, my dear?" he murmured. Alfred shook his head.

"N-no…"

"This will be a learning experience then." Ivan shoved his fingers up inside Alfred, tracing little throbbing paths with his cold fingertips. Alfred cried out, jerking—having something inside him like this felt horribly unnatural, even though he enjoyed the arousing sensations. And it was _very_ arousing. Ivan's fingers moved around inside him a bit more, exploring the American geography in preparation for invasion. Then they withdrew, and Alfred tensed, knowing what was coming. "Relax, my dear," Ivan instructed. "It'll be better if you're more confident."

"I'm not… Never done this before…"

"It won't hurt," Ivan lied.

Alfred believed him, and leaned back, closing his eyes. Ivan smiled, happy. The American's kisses on his chest had made him _very ready _for this. But he was always prepared to fuck someone up, especially _Amerika… _His hands tightened, pushing open California. Alfred's vital regions were about to be occupied by force. The thought made him so happy. Since his childhood, Russia had always found joy in inflicting pain upon others—perhaps because of the Mongol occupation, when he had been abused past the scope of other nations' understanding, perhaps because of the way he had to live with General Winter for half the year, perhaps because of the uninhibited cruelty he could commit now as Soviet Russia, perhaps a combination of all these.

He didn't care.

With a quick motion of his hips, he pushed Kamchatka far up into America's body. Alfred shrieked, the sudden sensation of Ivan being _there_ too much for him. Alfred couldn't explain why the knowledge and feeling was overwhelming; yes, it felt amazing, and yes, it was satisfying to be finally making love to Ivan, but other than that, he couldn't explain it. He felt tears coming to his eyes, and he held Ivan closely inside him, wanting him to stay forever, to keep this pure, virgin feeling there…

Then there was a shock of pain as Ivan moved, breaking free of his grip. Alfred cried out again, feeling the throbbing length penetrating deeper, deeper than he ever imagined was possible. And it _hurt. _It was in a good way, though, because Alfred knew that it would hurt him even more if Ivan stopped. Ivan withdrew partially, to the cries of his lover, but then thrust in again and again, biting deeper every time. Alfred shrieked as the speed increased, feeling wetness spreading all over their vital regions. The pain and pleasure made him feel as though there was gunpowder being set off inside his body, and he felt a burning beneath his skin as his nuclear power begged to be released. But that would hurt Ivan, and he couldn't do that…

Ivan had no such qualms in regard to America, and found a sadistic enjoyment in making sure Alfred was being hurt by this love. He bent down, lifting America's torso, and started to sink his teeth repeatedly into Alfred's collarbone. Alfred screamed at the bites, feeling the blood beginning to drip down his chest. Ivan tasted the blood, and felt himself losing every scrap of control he might have had. Growling with desire, he kept biting open Alfred's neck, clawing at his back, fucking him harder and harder. The younger nation shrieked, weakly scraping at Ivan's shoulders. They were going at it like animals, making such noises that the other countries could probably hear. They didn't care.

Alfred realized he couldn't hold himself any longer, with Ivan biting him and entering him over and over again, and came, shuddering and splashing liquid all over their joined vital regions. Ivan ignored it and continued to penetrate America, hitting a spot deep inside him that kept the pleasure racing through his nerves, even when his entire front felt like it had been chewed open and Ivan's size was pushing his body to the breaking point…

Ivan noticed when Alfred lost consciousness. He stopped biting, held the comatose nation down to come inside him, then withdrew, grunting. He felt better than he had in years—the Baltics had long ago stopped resisting, and there was nothing like a strong young nation to take virginity from. He smiled, remembering all those he'd invaded joyfully—Germany, France, Prussia—but this was different. Joyfully different—for the moment, America was the best of all his lovers. He paused to lick away the blood running over the torso, admiring again the sweet taste of Alfred's blood. It was mixed with some other substance, too, and Ivan glanced down. It seemed he'd missed when the other nation came.

Alfred was dirty; very dirty. Ivan debated rinsing him off in the shower, but he decided there was a better, more profitable way to do so. The Russian bent over, laying Alfred out so he was lying on the floor. The American seemed to half-wake up as his mouth began touching him, and gave little moans and jerks as Ivan cleaned him off. After he was finished, he wiped his tongue a bit more around Florida, and leaned up to kiss the healing bite marks. Alfred twitched once, and stared sleepily at Ivan through his glasses. Ivan smiled lovingly down at him, picking him up.

Russia carried America into his bed, noting that he fell asleep again when he was tucked under the covers. Ivan kissed him lightly on the lips, and Alfred didn't react. Ivan smiled.

Tonight had been good.

* * *

><p>America, when he first awoke, had no clue what he'd done or when it was. All he knew was that the sun was bright and pounding on his temples, his upper chest hurt like hell, and his lower body was really achy. There were a lot of explanations for that, and none of them he cared to consider at the moment. He lifted up the covers and saw he was completely unclothed. For some reason, it didn't shock him. What did surprise him was the scars all over his chest. They were scabbed over and small, but there were what looked like hundreds of them. And they looked like bite marks.<p>

"Good morning, my dear," said Ivan. _Ah, so it's morning. _Alfred rubbed a finger curiously along one of the marks. Yup, definitely a bite. Who the hell would be biting him? He frowned and poked around under the sheets for some clothes, or at least a pair of pants he could wear for the moment. Not that Alfred was concerned with modesty, but showing too much of himself in the presence of Russia could…

_Holy shit. _He remembered.

Alfred collapsed back in his bed, staring at the far wall. _Well, that explains a lot. _The TV was still on, but all that was on the screen was flickering snow. _I wonder if I can walk. _Ivan was staring at him, calm phosphorescence in his purple eyes.

"Huh… Wow." That was all Alfred could think to say. "I… can't believe we actually did it."

"Enjoyable, да?"

Alfred nodded. "…A learning experience."

Ivan looked at him, then suddenly began to chuckle. Alfred turned to look back at him, then started laughing too. The hilarity increased until both were unable to breathe, and Ivan eventually sat up, wiping a tear from his eyes. The Russian had a nice laugh, deep, but somehow still childish and innocent. He managed to stop and looked, grinning, at Alfred.

"Heh… I don't actually know what to say about it, except it was hot and I think I liked it. And… why did you bite me?"

Ivan's face suddenly became serious. He looked down, as if unwilling to meet Alfred's eyes. He absently fondled the end of his scarf in his hands. "I… ah… I lost control." He didn't apologize.

Alfred felt sorry for him. _He obviously feels bad about hurting me. _He hadn't picked up on the lack of apology. He stood, flinging the covers aside casually, and walked over to Ivan's bunk—_no trouble with that_, he thought. He bent over and kissed him gently on the head, teasing slightly the little tuft of hair Ivan called Novaya Zemlya. "Don't worry about it," he said. "I'm fine—they're healing. And I really don't care—it was totally worth it." Ivan looked up at him, hope shining in his eyes.

"Really?" he said sheepishly.

Alfred grinned. "'Course. Now, uh, do you remember where my clothes went?"

* * *

><p>Okay! Russia and America are FINALLY having sex!<p>

To all those reading this on the day it's uploaded, happy Soviet Wednesday! It's the second Wednesday of every month. If you want to celebrate it later, it involves (a) wishing everyone a happy Soviet Wednesday and (b) being happy and, most importantly, spreading that happiness. Everyone needs to be happy, especially on Soviet Wednesday- you can't not be happy on Soviet Wednesday.

Anyways, enough of my babbling, and I hope you liked it! Please review and don't forget to be awesome!


	12. Brother The Braginskys

The phone hanging on the wall rang abruptly. Prussia looked up from his comic book, frowning in irritation. It rang again, the tinny rattling echoing through the empty camper. It may have been his imagination, but it seemed to have a faintly accusing tone.

After the third ring, he got up and lazily slid over to the phone, picking it up in the middle of the fourth ring.

"Hey. You have reached the awesomeness known as Gilbert Bielshmidt."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line, followed by a frosty silence. "…You."

Gilbert recognized the voice and his eyes widened. He bowed gallantly, though, despite the fact that the other nation couldn't see him. Probably. "Ah, dear Katuyasha! What favor may I lend you today, lovely lady?"

Ukraine gave a hiss that sounded unnervingly like her sister. "Prussia, you German. Where is Matvey?"

"Oh, only off with his brother, or maybe Francis. It seems he needs a slight breather from my awesome looks, intelligence, and skills in the bedroom." Gilbert couldn't help but smirk at the angry silence that followed this pronouncement. "Not _feeling jealous, _I hope, dear Katuyasha?" he teased. "After all, I still think you were a fool for refusing my offer…"

"Brother would not be happy with you if he learned of your penchant for _rape _when you are not under his eyes," Ukraine said sweetly.

"I think you were the first, in fact." Gilbert ignored the veiled threat, even though a cold mass had dropped through his belly at the reference to Russia. "To refuse me, that is. 'Matvey' didn't, and I think he's much happier for—"

The phone call abruptly cut off. Gilbert listened to the dial throne, a smile playing around his lips. He was pleased with himself, even if the purpose of that brief bit of cruelty was only to force down the fear that Ukraine really would get their master to punish him.

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><p>Ukraine stared angrily at the phone she had slammed into its holder, her eyes glowing a brilliant blue. Prussia was a real bastard, for stealing Matvey, for almost invading her, for being a German… The list could go on and on. She wished at times that Poland and Toris would pull another of their surprisingly brilliant attacks and beat him up again, but really the only hope she had was to try and convince Брат to hurt him. And Ivan was growing more distant, lately… He only seemed to focus on that American…<p>

"Yekaterina?" came an unexpected voice from behind her. Yekaterina turned to see a younger girl, with a lacy blue and white dress, platinum blonde hair with a dark bow in it, and a glittering knife in her hand. She would have been rather pretty, except for the haunted, obsessive look on her face and the slightly mad glitter in her blue eyes.

"Hello, Natasha," Yekaterina said uncertainly. "Are you having a nice day?" She was always unsure of how to act around her younger sister, the personification of Belarus. Sometimes she was nice, kind, almost polite. This tended to be around Ivan, especially when he had guests. When Ivan was away, she started to grow slowly more distant, haunted, and generally insane. In this state, she always hung desperately on any message from Брат, but snapped at anyone who mentioned him. And then there was how she acted alone around Ivan…

Natalia smiled—Yekaterina couldn't tell if it was sarcastically or not. "Yes, very." She stroked her knife. "And don't call me Natasha."

Yekaterina ignored this demand and looked at the knife, her eyes narrowing. "If Брат finds out you've been trying to cut off Toris'… you know… again, I'll get him to use you as a 'gift' for him."

Natalia's smile was definitely sarcastic this time. "Большой брат will never hurt me. And you know what Toris wants to do to me." She pronounced Toris in the Russian way, _Toryis. _"His balls don't _deserve _to be—"

Yekaterina sighed and turned away, ignoring Natalia's rising rant. She looked at the phone, considering what to do next. After a moment, she began dialing a number and raised the phone to her ear.

"What are you doing?" Natalia had noticed.

"Calling Брат," she said absently.

"Why? Is he coming back soon? Will you let me speak to him?" Natalia was writhing with sudden emotion, her blue eyes flashing with rage, desperation, and longing. Yekaterina stared sadly down at her. After Ivan had saved her life from the Golden Horde a long time ago, sacrificing his own freedom to make sure his sisters survived, she had become more and more obsessed with him. When the Mongolian Empire that kept him prisoner finally fell, leaving the new nation of Russia a powerful, strong personification, Ivan had taken them both under his wing. He had been careful to shelter young Belorussia, and so her obsession with him had grown so tremendously that she became completely, crazily, psychotically in love with him. After Yekaterina had grown used to her dangerous insanity, she found herself pitying her sister. Her obsession with her brother had grown out of his own protectiveness, and he couldn't bring himself to see that it was his own mistake that had led to her current mental state. And so Natalia wasted away in her unrequited love, pining, growing less and less attached to reality every day.

Yekaterina reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Natasha?"

Belarus looked up, her face streaked with tears.

"It'll be okay. Брат will be back in a few weeks."

Natalia's eyes shone helplessly. "But can't I talk to him?"

Yekaterina shook her head sadly, and Natalia raised the knife. "I have something important I need to talk to him about. But when I'm done, I'll come up and tell you what he said."

Natalia sniffled. "So… you'll ask him about me?"

Yekaterina nodded. Natalia unexpectedly hugged her sister, her shoulders shaking with uneven sobs. Yekaterina patted her gently on the back, feeling her own eyes fill with tears. "Go up to your room," she whispered softly after a minute, and watched Natalia run up the wide staircase, the knife still glittering in her hand.

She sighed, then wiped the tears from her eyes and called Брат. He answered, sounding happier than usual.

"Брат, there's something I want from you. Someone I want you to hurt for me…"

* * *

><p>Брат- Brother (Russian)<p>

Большой брат- Big brother (Russian) (Don't look at me that way. I'm not an Orwellian.)

Personally, I like my take on Belarus. Yes, she's scary, but does anyone ever think about why she turned out this way? And she's completely insane, did we mention that? Now, let's think: any other countries that are total Yanderes, but we love them anyway because they have a tear-jerking backstory? [cough]BloodySunday[cough] [sniffles because she can't take any mention of Bloody Sunday now without feeling teary-eyed] Yeah, Belarus is kind of misunderstood and seems only used in comic relief or for some kind of rivalry to the main pairing (or to rape Russia), IMO.

Please review!


	13. Peacetime

WARNING: Gore and sexual references.

*YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED*

* * *

><p>Alfred smiled up at Ivan, reaching up briefly to rub his fingertip along his lover's chin. Ivan flashed his white teeth briefly, his eyes a warm violet. Alfred moved his hand to gently tug at the pinkish scarf still wrapped around the Russian's neck.<p>

"Why'd you keep it on? You should wash it…" Ivan's hand joined Alfred's on the scarf.

"It's not dirty, да?" Alfred noticed he was right; somehow, the scarf had been kept clean of the cum slickening the sheets.

"You're crazy." The blond nation reached up with both hands to wrap his arms around Ivan's neck. He gently pulled his lover down into the bed, snuggling closer to his warm body. Ivan smiled again, stroking Alfred's spine lightly. The American closed his eyes happily, wriggling slightly. This was just like being with England again…

Ivan continued smiling down at him until he was sure the younger nation had fallen asleep, then turned his head to stare out the window. It was early, incredibly early. But he had something to do. He had to keep alert…

* * *

><p>The newly risen sun struck Alfred's cheek, bringing with the light a warmth that sent his nerves tingling and awareness shooting back to his sleeping brain. The American didn't open his eyes when he awoke. He heard people talking, their voices carrying through the open window. The sheets were warm, though… and comfortable… Alfred groaned and turned over, pulling the cloth into his body.<p>

The voices began to rise, become clearer. "…Awful…can't believe he's still… What did…?"

Alfred opened his eyes. It sounded like something bad had happened… He tossed the dirty sheets aside, scowling. After a few moments of beating around for some suitable clothes, he began pulling on a pair of jeans. As he struggled with rearranging a shirt he'd found inside-out on the floor, he heard something suddenly, clearly.

It was Mattie crying.

Alfred dropped the shirt and rushed over to the door, slamming it open and dashing across the campground, ignoring the little bits of gravel digging into his bare feet. For a dizzying second, his legs wouldn't support him, then he caught his balance again. He saw the nations gathered around the trailer emblazoned with the Canadian flag and the CART logo. They were the ones who had been talking, but all he heard now was the sobbing of his brother.

He reached the trailer, shoving the other nations aside to angry hisses, ignoring China's "America, get away-_aru_!" He leapt up the stairs, yelling Matthew's name. Then he saw the inside of the trailer.

Canada raised his head to stare helplessly at his brother through teary glasses, his eyes dark. Germany looked at the two pityingly, even though the look in his eyes was as pained as Matthew's expression. Alfred shook his head, his lips forming the word _no _even though he knew not even he could help this. The hero backed away, still shaking his head and silently whispering "No…."

He turned, running out the door and staggering to the back of the trailer, where he bent over and was suddenly violently sick. This was horrible… it reminded him awfully of wartime… too much… but it was peacetime! And such a horrible thing had occurred anyways!

Alfred heard Mattie's crying start up again, and he automatically turned to go and comfort him. But then the thought of facing _that _again… He shook his head. This was no way for a hero to act. He needed to confront the horror…

Prussia had been lying spread-eagled on the coffee table, his wrists tied to the legs. He had been stripped naked from the waist up, and his underpants had been so torn up (the Prussian eagle on the left side had been completely ripped away, leaving only the shred of a wing on his thigh) that Alfred wasn't sure if he should call him completely unclothed. The glass in the coffee table was cracked somewhat, and shards of it had left gashes on Prussia's—Gilbert's—limbs. His torso was a mass of bruises and cuts that completely ruined his sculpted figure that he was always so careful to maintain and sure to flaunt. Alfred was sure now that he had seen a piece of broken rib showing through the torn skin. And the blood. Oh God, the blood.

The blood had been everywhere. On the bits of broken glass, on the wood, on Gilbert's entire body, in Germany's hair where he had run his fingers desperately through it, soaking through the carpet…

Alfred shuddered and wiped his mouth. He'd seen blood before, he told himself. Why is it such a problem now?

_It's the blood of a nation at peace, _he realized. _At wartime, we don't care, we're too busy fighting. We see the wounds later, we see the damage and the photos, but then we think it's all behind us. But when a nation tortures another nation, when they're both at peace… _

He shook himself. _Be the hero…_

When he entered the trailer again, this time he was able to look upon Gilbert's mangled body without cringing in revulsion. But it made a sudden twisting sensation in his stomach, and Alfred tried not to stare too long at it. As he turned away, he nearly stepped on something small and fluffy. He turned to look at it and felt his innards lurch once more.

Gilbert's bird.

A letter opener had been flung at it, leaving its entire chest region ripped away. The red blood clashed horribly with its gold feathers.

Alfred bit his white lips, then bent down and carefully lifted it. With a few careful steps, he placed its dead body next to Gilbert's head.

Germany and Matthew bowed their heads. Alfred felt his eyes fill with tears again. As he bent his head, he thought he caught a flutter of movement. His stomach jumped violently.

"H-he's still alive? How is that possible?" Germany looked sadly at him.

"He is an ex-nation, remember…" The recollection seemed to cause the European pain. Alfred's heart was suddenly wrenched, recalling Gilbert's bitterness on that subject during their encounter only a few days ago. He stared at the far wall. Even that wall was speckled with blood. Alfred jerked, remembering why Gilbert had spoken to him that night.

"You guys do know who did this, right?" he snapped. They both looked at him sympathetically, and ignored the question. Alfred twitched at their unheeding mien. "Why aren't you doing something to help? He's survived worse!"

Germany slammed a fist down on the table, narrowly missing his brother, and shouted, "_HE HAS NOT 'SURVIVED WORSE'! ZE LAST TIME HE HAD INJURIES LIKE ZIS, YOU ALLIES DISSOLVED HIM!" _Alfred stared at the German, wide-eyed. He opened his mouth to protest, but Germany wasn't finished yet. "And don't even _think _zat I don't vant to hurt ze one who hurt _mien Bruder! _I vish I could, but you know vhat _he's_ like!" His eyebrow twitched, and then he dove down to seize something from Gilbert's body. He picked it up, and brandished it in front of Alfred. It was an Iron Cross, hewn roughly in half.

"He's always wanted to break zese," Germany said softly, his voice shaking. "Never has he succeeded—until now." His face distorted in rage, he flung the bloody Cross to the floor. "He's stronger now—ve can't hurt _him_. None of us can."

Alfred's cheeks were cool again. "You're wrong. I can hurt him." And without saying any more, he turned and was out the door, brushing past China, who was yelling at him again, hearing things ringing in his ears—Ivan saying "I love you", Mattie crying, Germany almost sobbing in rage. He walked through the campground again, finding his way to his camper.

He spent a few minutes inside finding sneakers and putting them on, and when he came out, he was zipping his aviator's jacket securely over his bare chest.

America looked toward the indistinct glow from the Canadian town, the blood of a German ex-nation on his jeans, who had been hurt by his lover, Russia.

His nuclear power crackled beneath his skin, again pleading to be freed.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred began striding towards the distant lights of the town.

* * *

><p><em>mien Bruder- <em>my brother (German)

I'm so proud of myself, for managing to keep this fanfic going, and that people actually seem to like it... (^_#) Couldn't do it without you guys telling me that you love it (my writing's that good? I was wondering if my teachers were right...{you never know, I have this thing with not trusting teachers o_O}), so thanks a bunch! I am also suffering from some tiny head chickens at the moment, so I'm glad I was able to write this. Thank you, again!


	14. Familiar

The drunken Canadian before him jeered, waving the bottle over his head. "Yeah, that's right, you can't hurt us—" He stopped talking abruptly, his eyes wide, his face suddenly pale. As he fell, a trail of blood flew through the air from his mouth.

He looked around at the drunk's companions, not putting down his weapon. They whimpered and ran from the alley. He grinned to himself, and took another swig of vodka. The bricks of the alley wall swam in his vision, and he put out a hand to steady himself. The alley was replaced with a scene from hundreds of years ago, a scene that still filled him with an uncomfortable chill…

"Little whelp of a nation…" Someone growled. He felt a weapon strike his side, and he was knocked to the side. He didn't dare get up.

"Let's kill him!"

"Shut up, Mongolia!" The second speaker yelped as there was the sound of a blow. "Remember what happened last time we tried that?"

"…It got really cold…" Mongolia whimpered. "… and he got better as soon as it did…"

"Good boy, you're not as stupid as you look." The first voice was scathing. He felt a heavy boot kick him, but it was nothing compared to the other wounds he'd felt.

"Yeah, lemme kick him!" Mongolia jeered, and he felt a slightly less powerful kick. He opened his eyes, and reached out with a thin hand to grab the ankle of this tormentor. "Hey! _Hey! _Father, he's grabbing me!"

There was an exasperated sigh, then a blow fell on his wrist. He felt the bones crack, and he reluctantly released Mongolia. "Get him back to the prisons…" A hand grabbed the back of his ragged coat. He was lifted up off the floor, and the walls of the large tent began to blur and darken…

He gulped for air, suddenly finding himself back in the alleyway. He was on his hands and knees, dark blood spattered across the snow. He didn't know whose—probably from the dark mass that was a body, only feet from him…

There were tears running down his face. He stood, wiping them off. He hoped that no one had seen him… Staggering, he made his way down the alley.

It was snowing by the time he reached the street. The sky was dark, and there were streetlights highlighting the flakes. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing through the day. Snowflakes were landing on his eyelashes, and he blinked them away as a car drove past, throwing up more snow. He wondered if he should throw his hand out, get a ride to somewhere where he could do something more than get drunk…

The signs weren't in Russian. He tried to understand them for a minute, then gave up. Snow was being kicked up by the wind and his footsteps. His hand dragged along walls where it could. There were people, giving him strange looks, but otherwise doing nothing.

There was a bench ahead of him. With a growl and a swipe of his weapon, the shapeless mass of clothing that had inhabited it before fled. He collapsed on the bench, grasping a flask in his hand. He drank from it, feeling a pleasant alcoholic buzz take over his brain. The snow blurred… now it was settling on high pine trees…

The horses nearby were whinnying, panting from the cold. Stupid, weak creatures… He grasped the sword that was too big for him, muttering a brief prayer. He heard the muttering in an unfamiliar language, and it filled him with revulsion. _These bastards killed my mother. _He pushed his way through a bush, peering through the branches. He felt the strength of a nation nearby, and cast his eyes through the horses and invaders until he saw the powerfully built, armor-clad empire. His jaw twitched in anger. The cold and wind rose with his emotions.

With a yell, he charged. Horses shrieked and fled before him. Every time an enemy warrior appeared in his vision, he swiped the long sword, and they fell, staining the snow red. Every crimson drop that fell made him happy. He was avenging his people…

The empire now loomed before him, drawing his own blade. He laughed. "Little idiot," he mocked. "You really think you can defeat me now?"

He stood his ground. "You killed my mother," he hissed. Golden Horde laughed again.

"You mean I killed the human that raised you! And she deserved it; don't you understand that anyone who stands in the way of my conquests _must die?" _

A scream of rage filled him, and the sword was raised again. He didn't care who he hurt, he just wanted to avenge them… Someone else cried out in pain, and shouts of anger and indignation surrounded them. All he could see was a strange, bright purplish color stained with red. The blade was sinking into flesh, and he was happy…

Pain exploded on his back. The sword fell from his hands, which were suddenly not responding to the commands of his brain. Snow was cushioning his face, and he couldn't understand why. For his face to be in the snow, he must have fallen… and that wasn't possible! He smelled blood…

Someone laughed, a high, sycophantic noise. "Look, Father! I killed him! Aren't you proud of me?..."

He gritted his teeth. "I'm not dead!" he shrieked. "_I'm not dead!"_

"Evidently, for you to be yelling like that."

He sat upright. There was someone here, someone watching him, someone who shouldn't be here. He narrowed his eyes, peering through the darkness and the blizzard and the vodka haze.

"Who is there?" he called. Whoever it was, they didn't deserve to be seeing him, in this moment of weakness, vulnerability…

"You know damn well who it is, _Russia._" He saw movement; a figure was walking towards him. He didn't recognize them, could barely see him—it was a male from the voice. He wore a light brown jacket, and jeans, and had bright yellow-blond hair. Familiar…

"Get out," he snarled, not wanting company. "Get out or I'll kill you."

The man stopped. "Kill me?" he said softly. There was a sort of strength around him, a power… "Kill me like you tried to kill Gilbert?"

He stared stupidly at the man standing there, laughing silently at him. He had no idea what he was talking about. "You're a nation, aren't you?" he asked after a while. "How… how did you find me? What are you talking about? Do you think you can… think _you _can kill _me_?" His chest was heaving, and his heart felt as though it was about to burst from a maelstrom of strange emotions swirling within it. These were familiar emotions, but they shouldn't be here… Those emotions were from the past…

The nation stepped closer to him, drawing a pistol from his jacket. He could see his face now—blue eyes, glasses, tear-streaked cheeks and an expression of determination. He felt himself no longer able to support himself. It was only with an effort that he prevented himself from slipping off the bench when he collapsed.

His vision was slipping…

His attacker suddenly possessed a long braid of dark hair, and held a sword…

…Now it was the enemy nation again, cocking the pistol…

He managed to raise his head.

"No…" he muttered. "…Don't kill me…"

Mongolia's face was angry. _My father is dead because of you._

"I swear… I didn't kill him…"

The nation was crying. "Gilbert is dying, and it's all. Your. Fault."

"Please…"

Why couldn't they ever leave him alone? Why couldn't they see that it hurt him, too?

"You're not strong enough…"

His enemies, the one in his memory and the one standing before him, both shrieked in anger at his words, and their weapons flashed.

_I'm going to die now, aren't I?_

The familiar prayer flashed through his head, and then everything went black.

* * *

><p>Okay, I'm really sorry I haven't uploaded sooner, but I have recently rediscovered the awesomeness of the Harry Potter series (self-contradiction, I sort of failed in my judgements earlier), so all my free time has been taken up with reading and working on fanart and a couple of HP slash fics that I really think you don't want to see- they're horrible, IMO. (_ _)<p>

This chapter is themed on the period of Russia's life where he was imprisoned and abused by the Mongols. This is a very interesting topic, but, unfortunately, I don't think it can be portrayed in one chapter- or even one story. Well, maybe... if it was a long, well-written story...

Again, really sorry for the wait, and there will probably be another long one after this. I'm heading off to Bemidji, Minnesota to learn Russian on Monday, and won't be back for two more weeks. DFTBA!


	15. The Anger

WARNING: Some gore and sexual references.

**YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED**

* * *

><p>America stared down at his lover's body. The pistol was shaking in his hands. He couldn't believe he'd done what he just did.<p>

He fell to his knees, gasping in shock. His stomach lurched again, but he hadn't eaten anything, so only bile came up.

The snow was turning red, just like in his nightmares. Ivan's body, having slipped off the bench, was only a few feet from him. Alfred gulped, and tried to look at him. The Russian's eyes were still open, and stared at him stoically through frosted lashes. Blood had splashed up onto his pale face. Alfred tried to see the entry wound, but there was only a gaping, bloody tear in his chest. The American's vision swam. He'd seen it happen a few times in meetings, but never like this…

He reached out, trembling. The mass of flesh was less than a foot away from Ivan, but it felt like miles between it and Alfred.

Alfred picked up Ivan's heart. _Ivan's heart. _It was bloody, still, and dark, and it looked like Alfred had always pictured it to be. _His fucking _heart. Ivan had always been quick to hide it whenever it fell out of him in public. _What the hell is wrong with me. _The temperature began to drop even more. Then the unthinkable happened.

The heart gave a sudden shudder, and expanded, as thought it was drawing breath. It gave a single pulse. The wind began to pick up, throwing snow everywhere. The heart pulsed again, and began to spurt blood all over Alfred's hands. He swallowed. He wanted to drop the slowly beating thing, but for some reason he couldn't bear to let it go.

He suddenly felt a strange agony in his hands and yelped in pain. The blood was burning, painful on his fingers! It hurt, so much that he almost let go of the heart. He held up one of his hands, squinting at it through his frosting glasses. It was slicked with crimson. He wiped it off on his jacket, and looked at his fingertips again. They were raw, raw red from cold. Alfred stared at the heart—the blood was _freezing, _not burning! He would never understand Russia…

At that thought, America looked up at his rival's dead body. His eyes widened. _He couldn't see it. _It had only been feet from him, but it was obscured by swirling snow so thick that the world seemed entirely white. He groped for his pistol with his free hand, but could only find ice. Alfred stood, staring wildly, his heart pounding. Something was very, very wrong. He heard ragged breathing over the wind, and whirled. Nothing.

Footsteps crunched through the snow behind him. Alfred turned around again, and spotted a dark shape circling him. He spun slowly on the spot, never letting the figure get out of his sight. "Ivan…" he managed to choke.

An iron pipe lashed out of nowhere, and his skull exploded. When the world stopped spinning, the blizzard had died down. He could see Russia now.

He scrambled to his feet, panting. He _knew _what was wrong, now. He couldn't quite explain it, but he could see it in Ivan's face. That face, once so innocent and expressive, was now completely devoid of emotion. It was shadowed, and the eyes were glowing, but his pale, blood-spattered skin didn't even look human or nation anymore.

"_Give me back my heart," _he said. His voice was completely flat as he extended his hand. Alfred hugged the organ closer to him, pulling it into his heaving chest.

"_Give it back, Alfred,_" Ivan repeated. "_Do not make me hurt you." _

"I-I'll burn it." Alfred was terrified nearly witless, but in his bluff, he began to see a glimmer of hope for himself. "I'll nuke it, and you'll never get it back."

Ivan seemed to pause, but Alfred didn't know whether it was the threat or the turquoise light shining from his eyes. He took advantage of Ivan's apparent nervousness to concentrate some of his nuclear power in his hands, causing a radioactive glow to appear around the heart. Ivan's eyes widened, and he gasped briefly, in pain. He clutched at the hole in his chest.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Alfred said softly. He squeezed the heart, just once. Ivan gasped again. The Russian gritted his teeth, and raised his hand.

A blast of freezing wind hit America. It was so unexpected that he staggered backwards, and fell, letting go of the heart as the wind was knocked out of him by the pavement. He heard Ivan's ragged breathing and quick footsteps.

"My dear…" Ivan crooned above him. Alfred tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but his head was still spinning…

The iron pipe was raised over him. It descended, and Alfred realized he hadn't really known the pain of Ivan's wrath. The pipe struck him again and again, and his torso felt as though it was on fire. He tried to scream at Russia, but all he could do now was whimper helplessly. He remembered Gilbert and realized that this must've been what had happened to the ex-nation, and how he had felt in his last moments.

Anger. Anger was rushing at him from Ivan, and the strength of the emotion pinned Alfred to the snowy pavement, and he barely noticed when the physical assault stopped. He lay panting on the ground, tasting blood in his mouth. Ivan reached down and pulled him upright by the lapels of his jacket. Alfred didn't open his eyes, not wanting to look at Ivan's face.

"Well?" said Ivan sweetly. Alfred could feel his breath on his cheek. "Shall we make love like we have before, or are you still angry at me?" Alfred wanted to kick him, but he could barely move his legs, so he settled for a "Fuck off" through gritted teeth.

"Нeт. Fuck _you, _my dear."

Russia shoved America down onto the bench, smiling at the way he didn't protest. Alfred wished he could fight, but the way Ivan had beaten him had numbed his limbs, and there was no way he could recover before the night came to a nasty end for him.

Ivan's hands, still gloved, found Alfred's belt. The American realized that he was probably leaving bloodstains on his clothes, and managed to call up enough strength to reach over and try to keep Ivan from unbuckling his belt. Ivan casually slapped his hands away and pulled the strip of leather out of the loops. The belt fell to the ground, and Ivan paused to unbutton his coat. The old Soviet greatcoat hung down low enough to cover both of them, if he leaned close enough to Alfred. The younger nation felt his breath again, and managed to flinch as Ivan's cool lips brushed his cheek.

The jeans went next, and Alfred kicked weakly in an attempt to keep them on. He felt indignation rising in him—he really didn't want to do this, but he knew there was no way he could stop it. The realization made a strange, tight, angry feeling appear in his chest. He looked up to see the grin on Ivan's face, and realized with a lurch of fear and embarrassment that he wasn't wearing underwear. Ivan reached up to unzip Alfred's jacket, revealing the bare skin beneath. One of his fingertips traced a line down the fresh bruises, leaving a trail of cold blood.

Ivan's face lowered to his own, and he murmured, "Do you still love me, my dear?"

Alfred tried to turn away, but Ivan's hands were pressing down, pinning him to the bench. "No," he managed to choke.

Ivan studied him for a moment, and then said aloud, "It doesn't matter." He reached down to pull Alfred's hips up, and push his own body in between his legs. Alfred felt the bulge in Ivan's pants push against him, and tried to wriggle away. Ivan kept holding him tightly, though, even as he reached down to the zipper.

Alfred wished that he could just die now, leave his body so he wouldn't have to be there for its defiling. He gave a last attempt to pull away, but Ivan leaned down even farther so he was keeping Alfred down with his body. Then it was too late, and he entered him.

It hurt, hurt so much more than the first time. Ivan didn't seem to care that he wasn't ready at all, and started thrusting from the first. Alfred tried not to show his pain, but as Ivan hit him again and again, the pressure was building inside him, and he starting shrieking. Ivan grinned, panting, and pushed harder into his victim. His experience in sex began to tell, and he saw the look in the young nation's eyes—a combination of pain and pleasure. He had a brief flutter of doubt—didn't he want, above all else, to hurt America? As Alfred's moans grew louder, he came to the realization that it didn't matter if he enjoyed it—it would be better, even, because if he took pleasure in the rape, it would lead to a sort of ethical torment, and there were few things he liked more than to see innocents writhing in confusion, at constant war with themselves.

"Oh my God, Ivan, _I'm dying!" _Alfred screamed—Ivan had just started going even deeper than he'd thought possible, and it was both painful and pleasurable… He gasped, feeling tears rushing down his cheeks. It hurt _so much_… _Oh God, I'm coming…_

Ivan saw the look on his face, heard the scream of pain, felt him climax. He grinned. For the first time since nearly killing Gilbert, he was satisfied.

* * *

><p>Okay, first of all, I would like to apologize wholeheartedly for the length of time between my last chapter and this one, but this past week has been really busy for me, and full of writer's block. The fact that this chapter is up here and actually makes sense is thanks to my fellow author and very good friend, Jazzy. Jazzy, if you're reading this, I can't thank you enough for helping me with the brainstorming work I had to do before actually starting this.<p>

Also, I'd really like it if my readers who care enough to review would tell me if the quality is slipping. I haven't done much fictional writing in a while, so again, please say so if the writing seems a little dry, or something...


	16. Can't Touch Me

America stirred the third spoonful of sugar into his cup of coffee. He didn't care that it was ridiculously early. He didn't care that he was probably being watched at that very moment.

It was important enough that he was able to get this for himself.

After the crystals had dissolved, he glanced around him, then picked up the cup and gulped a good part of it down. He felt the caffeine rushing to his body, but wasn't about to stop drinking. The coffee was gone in two more swallows.

His limbs now jittery from caffeine buzz, he stood up from the picnic table, absently tossing the cup into the trash. He looked at the different trailers in turn, his head turning in quick jerks. Completely silent, each and every one of them. He took a deep breath.

That was about to change.

With the flick of a button, the huge speakers on the table began to crackle, the music they were being sent coming clearer and clearer every second. Alfred grinned madly, staring around at the campground that was beginning to come to life.

The footsteps behind him, of course, must have been England. France was not an early riser, so the Brit must've been alone. Germany had probably already been awake, and he started shouting at Alfred before his trailer door was opened. China peeked out to see what was going on.

Alfred cared about one person only, though. He ignored the gathering nations around him and stared directly at one trailer door.

He took a deep breath. _I'm taking a huge risk, _a part of his mind whispered.

He ignored it. He hadn't gotten a caffeine high for nothing. _He can't touch me. _His heart pounded in his chest, and it leapt up to his throat as the door creaked open.

His face dark and his scarf rippling dramatically, Russia began walking towards Alfred. There was a purpose in his stride and a gleam in his eyes that told all the other nations to stand back.

Alfred met his purple-eyed glare evenly. _You can't touch me._

The music was still crackling from the speakers. Russia ignored it and walked up to the picnic table, looking across it at his lover. He was now close enough to Alfred so that if he spoke, only the two of them could hear it.

Russia's lips barely moved, but Alfred didn't bother straining to hear it—anything that Ivan said rang in his soul as well as his ears, no matter how low he talked.

"You've woken us all up, Alfred. That's not nice."

"You can't touch me," Alfred replied.

He didn't understand why he could hear whatever Ivan said to him. All he knew was that he had begun noticing the way that Ivan's words felt as familiar as thoughts inside his own head after the rape.

Ivan smiled, and seemed about to respond to Alfred's cockiness, when someone rushed up behind the two.

"Alfred! What in hell are you doing?" Someone grabbed Alfred from behind and whirled him around, so the American was staring straight into his Canadian brother's face.

Alfred grinned. "Having _fun, _Mattie. Ever heard of it?" He jerked a thumb back at Ivan. "Oh, and there's no need to worry. He can't touch me."

Matthew glowered. He'd been woken up rather suddenly, and as such was not wearing his glasses. The effect, and the angry expression he wore, combined to make him look very unfamiliar to Alfred. The American relented and allowed himself to be dragged back to his new trailer.

He consented to a last, smirking backward glance and saw that Ivan had not moved, and was simply staring at them. The Russian's face had returned to that eerie, emotionless mask, and Alfred found himself gladdened in that his bluffs were at least partly in truth.

* * *

><p>It was lunchtime. Matthew, having already made himself and his brother lunch, was bustling about the kitchenette, cleaning stuff up and keeping an eye on Alfred. The American seemed somewhat depressed. Ever since he had come to Matthew with the story that Ivan had beaten and raped him, Matthew had been quick to find a way to protect him. Gilbert had been sent back to a German hospital within the day, and Matthew was able to transfer Alfred to his trailer. He wasn't sure about this in some respects. Having Alfred around brought back memories of their childhood. Alfred had been an arrogant brat even then, and he had picked up quickly on England's harsh personality. He also showed a slight streak of protectiveness, but also, even more so, a tendency for needless violence. It was made worse by how he didn't know his own strength as a youth.<p>

The uncomfortable memories, however, were being pushed to the back of Matthew's current impression of America. His brother was moping about, having his coffee almost black, snapping at Matthew whenever certain subjects loomed too close, and generally being in a foul gray mood. Today he seemed particularly down. Matthew could stand his brother's unhappiness no longer and sat down across from him.

"Al, what is it?"

Alfred jumped slightly. "Sorry, bro—forgot you were there," he apologized, flushing.

"It's nothing." Matthew leaned forward, looking Alfred in the eyes. "Alfred, you're feeling down. I can tell. Don't pretend I'm making this up!" he snapped, seeing his brother shake his head. "Now, just tell me, Al. What's wrong?"

Alfred turned and appeared to take a great interest in the wallpaper behind him.

"Alfred F. Jones. Listen to me."

"Why do you care?" Alfred muttered grumpily.

Matthew stood up and walked around the new table. He placed a hand on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred didn't look at him. "Because I'm your brother, Al," he said simply.

The trailer was silent for nearly a full five minutes. It was going through Matthew's head that this must be some sort of record for Alfred to keep quiet this long when he spoke.

"You remember what I said that other night?"

Matthew gaped down at him. "Eh? You—you can't—you were _drunk_ when you said that."

"I sobered up pretty well as soon as you asked if I was having sex with Ivan." He turned and smirked at Matthew. He continued to stare, his jaw working incredulously, but the only thing that seemed to come out of his mouth was, "Eh?"

* * *

><p>That night, Alfred was simply tormented by what he had said. It was true—he <em>had <em>loved Ivan. He couldn't explain that. But what about now, when his body was still bruised and defiled?

_He was drunk. And I'd just shot him… _

But then he remembered the look of Ivan's heart, and the disgust and loathing that seemed to rise in him at the thought of it. He shuddered, and automatically wiped his hands on the sheets. Ivan's emotionless face, too, flashed through his mind, and he felt an unnatural surge of terror. He swore that he could see the blank, mask-like visage looming at him through the darkness of the room, and cowered.

_He can't touch me_. With an effort of will, he forced his mind onto a different track, and soon was smiling at how nice it was to be with Mattie again.

But it wasn't long before he was thinking back to Ivan. _He was drunk, I'd just shot him, and, you know, the rape wasn't, like, pure agony or anything..._

The morning found Matthew looking at him worriedly again. "You all right? I heard you tossing and turning all night."

Alfred shook his head. "No, I'm fine."

Matthew gave him a long, searching glance, but finally returned his attentions to the croissant lying on the table before him. After about a minute, he paused and seemed to remember something. "Hey, Al."

Alfred put his coffee down. "Yeah?"

"I found this on the doorstep while going for coffee." Matthew reached down beneath the table and pulled out a large sunflower with a note tied to it. His mind whirling, Alfred reached out to take it.

It was a huge sunflower, of the type that Russia loved the most. Some of the petals had been plucked out, and it was wilting somewhat. Alfred plucked the scrap of paper out, easily untying the red ribbon it had been secured by.

The writing was neat, as if the author had learned English lettering out of a textbook. It said simply, "I want you back."

It was signed, in similarly neat letters, Иван Б.

* * *

><p>Okay. Recently, I've been wasting my life by taking notes on the relationship of two of the most slashed characters in literature, so I haven't been working on this much. But take heart in the fact that the plot is drawing to a close, and that there may soon be some new fanfics up in my account. (And no, I can't say that it will be an exciting close. I have the plot worked out in my head, and it might be over in a few chapters, but if enough people are protesting, I might figure out a way to work somethign in. I read your reviews, people!)<p> 


	17. Hot and Cold

The sun was bright, despite the chill breeze. The cold and light seemed to have an effect on the atmosphere, leaving the air sharp and clear. Ivan took a deep breath, reveling in the way his throat tingled as the cold air passed through it. He smiled. Compared to his usual situation, this was a very pleasant temperature. What better weather for finally taking back America?

The thought had no sooner flitted through his mind than he heard a door creak open. The Russian ducked behind his own trailer and pulled out a small periscope he had torn off a submarine back in his home.

The door that had opened was the only one, to him. No other Major Nation mattered in his eyes. Ivan grinned as he saw the nation was not the insignificant brother, but the one he wanted. His heart started to beat faster in his chest.

Alfred paused once out of the trailer; he looked around, as though sensing something. Ivan flattened himself against the back of his trailer, silently urging him to go on. A few seconds later, he got his wish, and he heard the footsteps of the other superpower moving on to the nearby coffee shop. Ivan breathed a sigh of relief. He did not want spectators, if Alfred chose to deny him…

The coffee America bought was relievingly hot, and it warmed Alfred's inside the way only a good warm beverage did on a cold day. In his opinion, it was too chilly to go outside—but he had no choice. Matthew had got a sudden fever, and Alfred's best efforts could not get his temperature down. To preserve the health of his brother, he had chosen to brave the cold Canadian wind to get coffee for them.

As he left the coffee shop, beverages in hand, a sudden chill ran down his spine. An eerie sense of _anticipation _was rushing through his soul—but what did he have to anticipate? Alfred cautiously walked to a bench and set his coffee down. He then turned a full circle, scanning the area. As he revolved a full three hundred and sixty degrees, his eyes fell on a single figure, blocking the path back to the campsite.

It was Russia.

Alfred gulped, and staggered backward. Emotions were rushing through him, clashing and throwing his mind into pure turmoil. The sky above seemed to darken, and his legs weakened. As he struggled to keep conscious, he heard something that riveted his brain and fixed his attention firmly in the world of the waking. He stood upright, gasping slightly, but otherwise recovered, and stared at Ivan.

"You bastard," he snarled. "Why the hell are you _laughing _at me?"

Ivan smiled innocently.

"D'you think it's _funny _that you're making me fucking _faint?_"

Ivan thought for a moment, and then shook his head. "I do find it amusing that you are overwhelmed by my emotions, but I truly did not mean to scare you."

Alfred stared at him in confusion for a moment, then sighed. "What the hell do you want, then?"

Ivan raised a pale eyebrow. With a few steps, he was standing right before Alfred. The American could feel his breath on his nose.

"Is it not obvious, my dear? Did you not get my message?"

Alfred lowered his eyes. "You... you want me back," he murmured. Ivan's proximity was having its usual effect on him, and the combination of fear and love was almost crushing his heart.

Ivan reached up to brush aside a loose strand of blond hair from his former lover's forehead. "So, what is your answer?" he whispered.

Alfred could not give one for a few moments. He knew how much Ivan loved him, and he knew the way that love was expressed. The emotions warred within him, and the intensity of their struggle silenced his tongue. Ivan's hand slipped down from his hair and rested lightly on his shoulder. The touch served to remind Alfred of the bruises covering the torso. He was struck by how his reaction had changed… A week ago, the feel of Ivan's fingers on him would have aroused feelings in him that he never dreamed he would be ashamed of.

Now, all it brought was a memory of pain.

Alfred looked up, and saw the bright glow in Ivan's eyes. He couldn't spot his pipe anywhere, but he knew how quickly the Russian could pull it out. The purple light was illuminating Ivan's face, throwing his protruding nose and finely angled brows into sharp relief.

Swallowing, Alfred nodded—a slight bobbing of his head. Ivan grinned, and pulled him close, burying his face in his scarf.

Alfred didn't protest. He knew what would happen if he did.


	18. Eh? A Threesome?

WARNING: FrUK. And UKFrCan.

***YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED***

* * *

><p>Canada wished he could ignore it.<p>

His brother no longer seemed depressed, but there was something else, too, that had changed.

He couldn't look at Alfred anymore without seeing that faint echo of sorrow and fear.

He didn't know for sure what had caused it, but he had a good guess.

And it made him angry.

So angry that he was abandoning his trailer and stalking over to France and England's trailer, with the cold wind biting his cheeks and numbing his fingertips. Of course, he was not so angry that he'd forgotten to leave a note to Alfred explaining where he'd gone. But he was forgetting about that, and, really, he was well past the point of not caring about his brother anymore.

The door was locked, but Matthew, being the organizer of the event, had keys to every trailer. He fished around in his pocket for the ring and pulled the ring out. As he fumbled with them, he heard a few noises from inside the trailer. He stopped. What had sounded like muffled giggling and thumping had faded, however. If he put his ear to the door, though, and listened… This time he was sure of it—someone inside was laughing softly, or perhaps crying. Occasionally that would break off into a moan. As the moan escalated and the pitch crept higher, almost to a shriek, someone else laughed, and it all started again. Matthew wished he knew what was going on in there.

He tore his attention away from the noises and found the key labeled "Trailer 4". He stuffed it into the lock and twisted it. The combined forces of his anger and his curiosity had the door open in seconds. The giggling and moaning did not stop. In fact, he thought the laughter was growing louder as he walked nearer.

Matthew was sure by this point that the sounds were coming from behind one of the beds. He held his breath as he approached, overcome by an inexplicable feeling of mischief. He walked to the back of the bed, leaned over, and shouted, "_BOO!" _

France and England both jumped, and then stared in confusion as Matthew dissolved into laughter. England was the first to recover his senses, and sprang up, grabbing Matthew by his mane of blond hair.

"America you buffoon!" he hissed. "What the hell are you doing here?" Matthew noticed then that Alfred was wearing his… waiter costume. The waiter costume. The infamous waiter costume that was rumored all over the world… Matthew managed to choke, "I'm not America, I'm Canada," before collapsing into hilarity again.

England glared at him for a while, which only served to make Matthew laugh harder, for it is not easy to look intimidating when you are wearing only a short apron and a collar. France stood up, too, and Matthew felt as though he was going to die—_he's wearing a maid outfit!_

"What is it, _mon chère__?" _he asked, fingering the fringe of his skirt. The skirt was so short that this fiddling almost raised the hem to the point of indecency. France's blue eyes fell on Canada, and his face brightened. "Canada! You have interrupted our romance—but that is all well, for I am sure I would not be averse to letting you join in—would you, _Angleterre_?"

Matthew looked up happily at France. "Eh? You want me to help?"

"Bloody hell no," England snapped. He hated to be reminded of the fact that he was willingly France's lover, and would never admit it to any other nation. "He's not joining it. Remember today that we agreed _I _would—"

"_Mathieu _wants to help, _non_?" France smiled, reaching out to stroke England. The apron must have been backless, for England immediately shuddered and tried to slap his hand away, blushing.

"Alright, fine." England scowled at Matthew. "Why are you here, anyway? Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on your idiot brother to make sure he's not running off and doing… whatever to Russia?"

Matthew froze for a moment in taking his sweatshirt off. "Eh…well, he's probably off screwing Russia right now," he said, almost proudly.

England pressed his knuckles to his forehead, sighing. "Why I ever get mixed up with you people, I will never know." He couldn't continue speaking, for France, now completely naked except for a rose, tackled them both.

* * *

><p>Alfred scowled at the scribbled note on the coffee table. It said simply, "Am at France + England's. –CAN" This was easy enough to understand. But it meant more walking. Their trailer was on the other side of the park. And Alfred didn't feel like walking all the way there just so he could ask Mattie where his baseball was… He sighed and went back to looking for it.<p>

After fifteen minutes, he had all his personal items that he had brought over to Matthew's trailer. Except for the baseball. He looked around for another ten minutes until the phone rang.

"America here."

"Привет, my dear." Russia's voice was deep and soft, and it sent a wonderful chill down Alfred's spine, even as a cold spot began to sit in his belly. "Why are you late? I have been waiting."

"I'm getting my stuff. I just have to find my baseball. I think Canada stole it."

"Hmm." Ivan purred, and Alfred wished he could throw himself through the phone line and into the Russian's arms. "Do you want me to—"

Alfred laughed nervously. "No, please. Don't even think about it. I'll get it."

"Very well. See you later, my dear."

Alfred grinned. "In bed?"

Ivan's voice dripped with amused seduction. "Hopefully."

There was a _click, _and Alfred, suddenly much more cheerful, hung up. As he turned around, he saw Canada's pet polar bear, staring at him through beady black eyes.

"I won't let you two hurt him," it said softly.

Alfred glared at it. "What do you want? Go away. Go find your master."

Kumajirou held him for a moment in his frosty gaze, then turned and silently padded to the front of the trailer. Alfred was slightly unnerved by the encounter, and decided that anything that grew up in such cold conditions could be very, very creepy.

As he walked the distance to Trailer 4, mulling this over, he caught sight of Ivan standing at the door of their trailer. He smiled and waved, and grinned as Ivan waved back. "Be there in a moment!" he called. He saw a responding flash of white teeth from his lover.

The door was ajar as he walked up to it. Alfred swore he could hear sounds coming from inside. But that was to be expected—you can't have France and England within twenty feet of each other without them arguing. Or making out, depending on how drunk they were.

But, no matter how well he knew the European nations, he would never be as shocked as he was when he entered the trailer and saw them. He couldn't speak or move for a good half a minute, during which the full force of the scene before him imprinted itself on his brain.

France was lying on the ground, naked, moaning in delight as England... _fucked him. _That in itself felt like a reversal of global polarity, but was made even more so by the fact that Mattie was lying _on top _of him, giving him a blowjob. Alfred tried to make sense of this for a moment, but gave up and screamed, "_What the fuck are you doing_?"

England glanced at him for a second, but ignored him and continued to thrust into his lover. France smirked, and reached up to Matthew's ass. He licked his fingers and began rubbing them on the smooth skin, slipping them deeper and deeper into the space between the cheeks. Matthew began moaning, too, and almost took his mouth off France's cock as the European's hands traveled lower. France leaned up further, and began licking where his fingers had recently caressed. A shudder traveled through Mattie's entire body, and he began crying out around the Eiffel Tower in his mouth.

Alfred had seen enough, and let all his voice into a scream.

* * *

><p>Ivan had heard Alfred yell from France and England's trailer, but he assumed that was merely America shouting at his brother, and had ignored it. He could not, however, ignore Alfred running, screaming, out of the trailer.<p>

Alfred ran up to him and leaped on Ivan, wrapping his arms and legs around him. "Let's-go-inside-and-have-hot-sex-right-now-please," he whispered quickly into Ivan's ear.

"What about the baseball?" Ivan asked, confused.

Alfred shook his head and buried his face in Ivan's scarf. Ivan shrugged and went inside.

* * *

><p><em>mon chere- <em>my dear (French)

_non- _no (French)

_Angleterre- _England (French)

Okay, here's another smexxx chapter-this time with that pairing we all know and love, with a twist! Angst leads to some very fun things to write. ^_^ I hope you like it! I'll be working more now, so expect more common updates.


	19. Lonely

WARNING: Violence...

***YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED***

* * *

><p>For years afterward, Alfred swore that the Canadian Annual Road Trip for that year was the best thing that could have happened for his relationship with Russia. They always stood next to each other at any sort of gathering, every glance at each other was filled with secret smiles, and Alfred lost count of the nights that ended with him moaning in Ivan's arms.<p>

When other nations asked him about it, he would reply with a laugh and shrug off the accusations that Ivan had hurt him. But there were some countries that knew him well enough to see the flickers of pain in his eyes, saw the force he needed to keep his nuclear power from rushing up in a wave of emotion.

One day, as they sat on the couch, staring at the flickering TV screen, Lithuania could hold back his worry for his employer no longer. He leaned forward, his fingers fiddling nervously with his hair.

"Mr. America?..." He was uncomfortable at first, but then he asked his question, _the _question, for the umpteenth time, and could not hesitate any more. "What… what did Master Russia do to you?"

America turned, and there was a grimace on his face at the question, the question that he had heard far too many times. The sincere worry in Lithuania's eyes, those sparkling emeralds that were so different from the glowing purple eyes of his lover, stopped the harsh retort that was on his lips. He could not change the irritation that he felt at the return of this unfounded implication, and so he did not reach his hand out and comfort his servant. He did not wrap his arm around his shoulders, as he had so many times in less upsetting matters or even for no reason at all. He simply looked at Lithuania, and said, "He loved me."

He turned away, and did not look at Lithuania, even when he heard a racking, angry sob, even when the patter of running feet echoed through the house. He remembered the CART, and the memories brought up a smile and a sudden urge to see Ivan again. Alfred stood up, and walked to the phone in the kitchen. His fingers flew automatically over the keys.

* * *

><p>They ate dinner together at a small, but well-atmosphered restaurant in New York City. Even though they had been here many times before, Alfred still enjoyed seeing the rush of lights and people. He loved showing Ivan the sights of the city even more, and a thrill of happiness surged through him when he realized Ivan had yet to see one of the greatest attractions. He tugged on the Russian's sleeve. "Hey, Ivan," he said, leaning up to get his lips closer to Ivan's ear. "Have you seen Times Square yet?"<p>

Ivan hummed softly, a deep, quiet noise made low in his throat. Alfred felt shivers of delight pass over him. "Only during the day," he responded eventually.

Alfred grinned, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Wait 'till you see it at night. There's nothing like it."

And so it was that the American and the Russian stood together beneath a streetlight, staring in wonder and joy at the bright lights of the advertisements shining down on the Square. Humans were dashing back and forth, always half in the light, half in the shadow.

"Amazing," murmured Ivan. "Amazing. There are so many people."

"That's why I love it here," Alfred replied. "I always come—when—" He broke off, glancing up at Ivan. After a moment, he found a new track of conversation, and lifted a hand, sweeping it around in a gesture meant to encompass the whole of the Square. "These are all people, real people, each one with a life and story, friends, a family…" Here he sighed, and fell silent. His hand dropped to his side.

Ivan stared down at his lover. He had never guessed at this side of America's personality. He had grown up, alone, and been so strangely strong that he had no peers. He had thought that England's foster parenting had been enough to give the young superpower a feeling of family, but perhaps he had been wrong. Ivan reached out and put his arm around Alfred's shoulders, pulling him close.

They stayed that way for a while, sharing in their mutual warmth and love. After a minute, Ivan asked, "Do you know why I began to spend time with you, my dear?"

Alfred blinked. "No. You never told me." Many times, he had wondered why, since their shared time led to a strong, mutual affection, and finally, love.

Ivan gently squeezed his shoulder. "I… I was lonely. Lonely… just like you." He turned to Alfred, a sort of desperation in his eyes, a desperation that said, _There, I've told you. Will you blame me? Do you still love me? _

Alfred smiled reassuringly. He leaned up, until his face was less than inches away from Ivan's. "Thank you," he whispered, and brought his head forward those few inches. They kissed for a long time, filled with joy that the other was there, that they would never be lonely again…

* * *

><p>Toris was angry. That never happened to him, not even when Poland was a bastard, not even when America acted like an arrogant asshole, not even when Russia hurt him. But this was different. Russia was hurting America—he knew it; he knew it from the burning of the scars on his back. And America didn't know it. Somehow, Russia was sucking the love from him, turning him into that arrogant asshole that caused Toris more pain than he ever let on. Mr. America didn't deserve to be known as such a jerk.<p>

Toris was angry.

He went to his room, and rifled through his bags until he found what he was looking for. He drew it out, remembering those days of joy with Poland. He smiled fondly, recalling the day they defeated Prussia… _This had had a hand in it_, he contemplated, stroking it.

He heard the door opening, and the voices of Master Russia and Mr. America, teasing each other, laughing. Rage burned in him again. _So, that's where all his love has gone..._

Toris drew his old sword out of its scabbard and padded silently to the front hall.

* * *

><p>Alfred was looking forward to the night, and he told Ivan as much. Ivan laughed heartily, and grinned at him. Alfred liked his laugh. It was warm, rich, and it had been years since he had heard any undercurrent of madness, and even longer since that horrible, chilling "<em>Kolkolkol" <em>had passed the Russian's lips.

Ivan looked lovingly at him. "Shall we go straight to your room, or do you have some other surprise for me?"

Alfred smiled. "As a matter of fact, I believe I do have something else to show you."

They passed out of the front hall, Alfred leading the way eagerly, Ivan following just as excitedly. They were so focused on one another that they never noticed Toris.

The only warning Alfred had of his servant's appearance was a strangled, half-sobbing cry, and then a noise that only could have been a sword swinging through the air—and striking flesh. He whirled to see Toris standing over Ivan, who had swayed and stumbled at the blow.

Alfred could not process what he had just seen. Toris held a sword—a real sword! It was old and notched, but it still shone with a bright steely glitter. His green eyes were sparkling harder than ever—they looked like true emeralds. Ivan was leaning against the wall, and his face was just as stunned as Alfred felt. But there was no sign of a wound.

Toris screamed again, and yelled something in Lithuanian or Russian—it sounded like an accusation, an accusation filled with righteous anger and sorrow. He lifted the sword again, and struck down at Ivan's upraised face.

This time, it drew blood.

It was the smallest cut, but crimson washed down Ivan's cheek, mirroring the faint redness on the edge of the blade. Toris sobbed in fear, and at that moment, Alfred understood why.

Ivan's eyes were glowing again, not with that loving violet shine, but with that unwholesome, eldritch purple light that reflected off the blood and the sword and even the air around him, it seemed, for an eerie aura was lighting up around him. Ivan stood, purple fire gleaming in his eyes. He struck at Toris, and not only with his hand, but with that iron pipe that he always carried about with him. Toris didn't even cry out as he fell limply to the ground, blood trickling from a cracked skull.

Ivan turned those rage-filled eyes on Alfred next, and the American shrunk back, trying to appear as innocent as possible. The iron pipe was raised, gleaming harshly in the purple light. The last thing Alfred heard was Ivan's voice.

"Quite a surprise, my dear… _Kolkolkol…"_

* * *

><p>And so it also was that Alfred would forever consider the CART as one of the worst things that had happened to his relationship.<p>

* * *

><p>...and so it is that Russia goes insane. Again. [shakes head] Ivan, you silly communist...<p>

Anyways, I hope you like it! Nearly twenty chapters! [happy dance] I've been working on this fanfic for so long that I've sort of, well, accepted that it's part of my life at the moment. It's going to be weird finishing it, but then I at least can work on other long projects. And I could not, honestly, do it without my somewhat-faithful readers, who find the time amidst writing their own fanfics and reading other stuff to pay attention to my little scribblings in the corner of the Internet. If it were not for your compliments and the fact that you take the time to actually write your own little reviews, I don't think I would have the heart to continue. I think I've said this before, but I'll say it again: Thank you, readers.


	20. Bad Things

Canada smiled at Ukraine, reaching out to stroke back a strand of her platinum hair. She smiled back at him, her cheeks rosy. "Are you sure you're okay to spend the night at my place?"

She nodded. "Brother has been kind recently. I do not think he will mind."

Matthew sucked in a breath through his teeth; he'd just remembered something. "You know what, you just reminded me—I gotta check on Al."

Yekaterina blinked at him, her light eyelashes fluttering with confusion. "Doesn't he have a date with Ivan tonight?" Matthew nodded. She sighed. "Mattie, stop worrying. Ever since they got back together… Ivan has been nice. Good. No one's been tortured in—"

"Maybe he's found someone else to torture, eh?" There was a cold look in Matthew's eyes.

Yekaterina just shook her head.

Matthew looked at her skeptically.

She sighed again. "You do not understand him. If he was being cruel elsewhere, he would be cruel at home too. He is addicted to violence—_addicted._" She had learned the English of that word only recently, and she was proud to use it.

It seemed to make an effect on Matthew. He sighed and looked down, scuffing the street with his shoes. "I can walk her home." Someone was behind them. Yekaterina whirled, pulling out her pitchfork. After seeing who it was, she relaxed her grip. A ghostly white polar bear was peering at them through the darkness.

"Kumaji!" Matthew bent over to ruffle the hair on Kumajirou's head. He glanced up at Yekaterina. "Well? Do you want Kumanita to walk you back to my house?"

Yekaterina knew her answer already. "No," she said. "I want to stay with you."

Matthew stood up. "You want to help me check up on Alfred." He opened his eyes wide in surprise for a moment, then turned away. "Okay. Your choice."

The Soviet nation grinned, and then ran after her boyfriend.

* * *

><p>America's house was empty when they arrived. Their footsteps echoed through the empty halls. Yekaterina had never seen the inside before, and stared in wonder around at the vases of roses and patriotic symbols hanging on the walls. Matthew was suspicious, and brought Kumajirou to his side with a low whistle.<p>

It was when they reached the kitchen that Matthew became even more unnerved. There was no sign that it had been used in the past several hours. And that didn't fit. Even after having dinner, even just before a night of sex, Alfred would've eaten something.

"Katuyasha," he said. "Something's wrong here."

"What?" She was at his shoulder in moments. He explained. She frowned.

"I'm looking through the front rooms again. We might've missed something." And he left Yekaterina standing alone in the kitchen, worrying.

His concern was contagious, and she found herself wondering before long if something had happened. Maybe Ivan had spent too long sane, so he was going back to his old, crazy, Russian habits.

The phone on the wall rang.

She picked it up without a moment's hesitation. "Yes? This is Ukraine speaking."

"Yekaterina? Thank God." The caller spoke in Russian. She frowned. She recognized the voice, but not the tone.

"Eduard? What's wrong?" she replied in the same language. "You sound almost like Raivis. Is it Ivan?"

She heard him gulping, and a slight, nervous laugh. "Raivis? Heh. He's almost passed out. I gave him some cognac—God, I think we _all _need alcohol."

"Eduard. Focus," she told him sharply. Despite her calm outward mien, she was deeply unnerved by Estonia's hysterics. She had known the tech-savvy Baltic to be almost unflappable in most dire situations…

"Katuyasha!" Someone else was calling her, with the same note of panic in his voice. She automatically began walking towards the sound of Matthew's yell, still talking to Eduard.

"Eduard, calm down. Is it Ivan? Is he drunk?"

She came across Matthew in the room directly after the front hall. He was kneeling on the floor. Kumajirou was sniffing something on the boards.

"Drunk—no, he's not drunk, I don't know. But—but it's bad, Yekaterina, really bad."

Matthew gestured frantically at the floor. "Yekaterina, look—this is bad—"

"Hold on a moment, Eduard. What is it, Mattie?"

"_Blood, _Yekaterina—and on the walls too—blood!"

She stared in terror, but the horror was not over yet. Eduard had ignored her order and was still babbling.

"Raivis was the one to greet him—bad idea, very bad. He's almost passed out now—you should've heard him screaming—but Natasha's even worse. She's destroying everything she comes into contact with, she's so angry—"

"And Alina? Is Alina okay?" Yekaterina could never really hide her worry for the Crimean girl.

"I got her to stay up in her room—everyone else, you know, Nikolai, Misha, they've all hidden themselves off, I don't know where."

"I don't care about them, what about—" She swallowed. There were still two unaccounted for. "What about Toris and Ivan?"

Eduard's voice began shaking even more. "T-that's the worst. They're up in—in Ivan's room—Toris is—Oh God, it's bad—Toris—"

"What?" she screamed helplessly into the phone. She could still hear Matthew yelling "Blood!" but this was worse, this was much worse.

"Toris is being _tortured—_oh God, please get over here soon—and bring America! He'll help!" There was a pause. For a few seconds, Yekaterina could hear sounds in the background. Awful sounds—muffled screams, distant sobbing—and footsteps. Quiet footsteps.

"Estonia, who are you talking to?" someone asked in dulcet tones.

Eduard whimpered. Yekaterina stared straight ahead, unable to tear the phone away from her trembling, tear-streaked face.

"You shouldn't be calling America. That's bad," Ivan continued, still speaking softly and kindly. "Tell me, that was who you were trying to call, да?"

"N-no…" Eduard's voice wavered.

"Liar." Ivan was suddenly cold. There was a cracking sound, followed by a low clatter. It seemed the phone had fallen to the floor. Matthew stared nervously up at Yekaterina. There were tears running down her cheeks, but she was somehow managing to keep silent.

The phone clicked again. "America? Alfred?"

Matthew thought he heard his brother's name, and desperately pulled the phone away from Yekaterina's ear, turning the volume up frantically.

"My dear…are you there?" Ivan continued. "Are you all—" They heard a sudden intake of breath. There was another click. They kept staring at the phone until it started beeping, and Matthew hung up.

The phone fell to the floor, and Yekaterina slipped down beside it. She buried her head in her arms and sobbed quietly. _Everything was going so well… _Matthew covered his own face with his hands, taking deep breaths. He couldn't imagine what had happened to make everything go so horribly wrong.

* * *

><p>Yes! New chapter is finished! I'd like to apologize for any wait. Hopefully it may have been alleviated by the other fanfic I uploaded, but...I made the massively unforgiveable mistake of impatience, and now I can't really read the end of that one without wincing. I promise to re-read these more thoroughly from now on...<p>

I got a question a little while ago asking me what CART was, and for the person who asked- go back to the third chapter or so (the one where the road trip starts), and it's sort of indirectly stated. The road trip's official name is the Canadian Annual Road Trip, and that acronyms nicely to CART. (I just verbed acronym. ^_^)

Please review, and thank you for your patience!


	21. Sociopathic

Alfred stared at the ceiling, not really seeing it. He could smell the blood in the room, and could hear Toris's gasping, trembling breaths, but he didn't really know what to do. He had never actually gotten the hang of comforting people. The pain, also, clouded his thinking, turning his thoughts into a blurry, distracted swirl.

He heard a distant screech from downstairs. The American turned his head, wincing as the dried blood on his neck cracked. The scream was cut short swiftly, and was followed by the soft, muffled noise of boots clacking up stairs. Toris's whimpers grew louder and more spasmodic. Alfred knew without looking that the Baltic was rocking back and forth, clutching his stomach—he had seen the Lithuanian in similar stressful situations. A sardonic smile twitched his lips for a moment… When had they ever been in a situation quite like this? The smile faded, and someone paused outside the door.

Alfred could hear him taking deep breaths, the occasional quiet hiss of a silent scream. He closed his eyes, feeling the tears pressing on the back of his lids. He released a quick prayer from his lips. He didn't want to die like this. The door handle clicked. It was all over…

* * *

><p>Ivan stopped just before the door, sucking in the cool air. The chill soothed his throat, raw from screaming. He couldn't speak. He extended a hand to open the door, but noticed the strange shade of black on his glove… He looked closer. Blood. Blood, shining in the glow from his eyes…<p>

"Нет," he whispered. _I can't do this. _Comforting others was not one of his strong suits—he'd never understood their problems, and so had no idea how to fix them. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the blood was flowing, warm, dripping down to the floor, staining his boots. The world swirled—emeralds and swords and roses flashed in his vision. His head exploded in pain, and a horrible, cold, clenching feeling raced from his chest to down his spine. He knew he was screaming, but he couldn't hear anything over the memory of his own, crazed "_Kolkolkol…" _

When a superpower goes insane, the danger is unmatched.

Russia managed to get back in control of his senses and leaned against the door again. Alfred was in there—his dear Alfred. He had to see him again, had to… apologize…

He pressed down on the door handle. He felt Alfred and Toris's fear behind the door—no. It wasn't fear anymore, at least for Alfred. A sort of determination echoed in his head. _Well, that's good, isn't it—he's not scared of me. _Ivan managed to twist his lips into a brief smile, and opened the door.

Alfred lay as Ivan had left him, on the bed, his shirt ripped off and torso bruised. His glasses were cracked and dotted with blood. Ivan sucked in a breath—he hated himself. Hated himself with a passion and rage that was only notable in that it lasted for a mere second, as his sanity surfaced fully for a moment. His self-loathing was quickly submersed; a little voice in his head, so tiny, suggested for a second that this—the whole horrible, twisted thing—was _funny. _He should _laugh. _It was funny…

Ivan dispelled the horrible thoughts with a shake of his head and a step forward. He held himself still, staring down at Alfred's body. His muscular chest—the same lovely figure—was still rising and falling, and Ivan took heart in that for a second. But then Alfred realized Ivan wasn't hurting him, and opened his eyes.

The first thing that the Russian saw in his lover's eyes was beauty. The irises were burning a flaming azure with barely suppressed nuclear power. The light burned through Ivan's mind, silencing the little whispering voices and their sociopathic suggestions, clearing the hatred of himself from the hidden recesses of his sanity. There was someone in this world who didn't fear him, who didn't think him a complete monster… Then he saw the reproach.

The blame. The sorrow. The reproach in Alfred's eyes hurt his heart, made the whispering voices hiss in anger, made Ivan bow his head, hating himself again. "I'm…" he began, but the American shook his head.

"You won't mean it. Not with all of you," Alfred managed to rasp—an eerie echo of Ivan's own, scream-ragged voice. The little voiced began to laugh, a giggle that he had heard time and time again. Ivan shook his head.

Tears were washing the blood from Alfred's cheeks now. He reached out, his hand trembling weakly. His voice was strong, though, and it cut to Ivan's heart. "Ivan…I have something I need you to know." The Russian nodded. He knew what Alfred was about to say—he could hear it in his head, hear it already. His breath was catching already, and he pressed his lips together to keep the sobs down.

"I'm… I'm breaking up with you." The casual, cliché line, spoken with such emotion and in such a place, was like a knife blade slicing through Ivan and lightning striking him all at the same time. He felt weak, like he was about to fall, yet only a single tear escaped from his faintly glowing eyes. His heart was suddenly jerked, and he heard the little voice laughing in his head.

* * *

><p>Alfred half-closed his eyes as he spoke this certainly fatal sentence, and Toris's cries stopped in shock and fear. He waited for the blow that would send his consciousness from his body again.<p>

Nothing happened.

Ivan stood there. A tear ran down his pale cheek, and the glow in his eyes dimmed. He just stood there. As Alfred watched, the eerie light faded and darkened, leaving his irises dull amethysts.

It seemed like hours until Alfred's brother and Ivan's older sister rushed into the room. The American could only stare at the unmoving statue that had been both his closest lover and his worst enemy, even as Matthew shouted in his ears and Ukraine sobbed quietly at his shoulder. Alfred felt the familiar feeling of being dragged out, and he said, even though the world was blurring, "I'm fine, Mattie… Can walk by myself…" He shoved them aside, trying not to think about anything. Especially not that still figure with the tears in its eyes.

He succeeded, too, until he got home. Then he saw the roses and the sunflowers. And the small bloodstain on the wall.

* * *

><p>Okay. First I would like to offer a MASSIVE apology for the wait for a new chapter! Seriously, I almost hate myself for this. It was caused by a combination of (1) computer problems, (2) my discovery of Tumblr and Doctor Who, and (3) my own despicable laziness. I am on my knees, BEGGING forgiveness. So please don't hate me- I'm guilty enough without it. (_ _) T.T<p>

However, I am anticipating a new chapter up relatively soon since I'm "alive" to the Internet now. And probably some more fanfics, probably Doctor Who-related. (Hopefully some of you will appreciate that, since one of the Unwritten Laws of TV Shows I have found dictates that if you are a Sherlockian, then you are probably a Whovian. No offense to those to which this law does not apply.)

Again, I am _very _sorry for not uploading this chapter earlier!


	22. Cigarettes and Broken Glass

The old mansion that the nations used for World Conferences had been falling apart. The roof was leaking and had been for years. But recently there had been panels in the walls falling away at the touch, and no one really went up to the topmost floor anymore for fear that their steps would cause some new devastation. "This is so fucking stupid," Alfred muttered. They were gathered in front of another, unfamiliar building. "Where did England run off to?" "Maybe he's with Germany," Italy said, floating behind him. "He's gone too."

"D'you have any idea what's going on?"

"No, ve…"

Nations nearby gave the two countries withering looks and then ignored them, for the most part. The Swiss air was tanged with cold from the nearby Alps, and Alfred shivered and pulled his jacket closer about him. He could feel Russia's gaze boring into his back. It was as if there were holes being drilled in his spine and he was losing his ability to stand straight. He turned around, half-meeting Russia's eyes, and gave him the finger.

Just as Russia was opening his mouth to respond, England stomped into the group. He glared around. "A'right, we've got the conference hall ready. Come along." With a final glower, he spun about on his heel and stamped back to the new building. The nations trailed after, some beginning to get the picture. America was not one of those few.

"So, what's going on?" he muttered out of the side of his mouth, quickening his pace to walk alongside Japan. The slight Eastern nation gave him no reply. England glanced behind him and gave him a scathing look. Alfred grinned innocently, and continued cogitating. "Ohhhh!" He eventually realized. "So this is the new World Conference building!" He was ignored, and Alfred shrugged.

They filed into the main conference hall and sat around the table. England, Germany, and Switzerland stood at the front of the room. Germany cleared his throat.

"As I am sure you all have noticed, we are now in the new and improved World Conference site that Switzerland has been kind enough to give us the use of." Here he paused and attempted a smile at Switzerland. The Germanic gave a cold nod, and narrowed his eyes around at the conference. Germany swallowed and tried to return to his train of thought. "I…ah…we hope that this becomes as treasured as much as our old one." He sat down, and was followed by Switzerland. England remained standing, and he tapped a gavel on the table.

"Let the World Conference begin."

* * *

><p>After three hours of alternating lively and dull discussion, Alfred was happy to finally be leaving. The joy he felt after closing the doors on the conference was suddenly replaced by nervousness. He didn't know every nook and cranny of this building… Didn't know where to hide…<p>

He sighed. Despite his minor fear, he was _bored._ So bored that it felt as if his brain was trying to jump out of his skull. God, he had to find something to do…but his ride back didn't leave for another half hour. And Switzerland was so dull…and scary. You never knew if the blank looks on the people were real or if it was just a façade. _They must all be secretly members of this national Swiss SWAT team or something cool and scary like that. _Entertained by this fantasy, Alfred grinned and leapt up in the air, brandishing finger-guns at invisible enemies. "I am _so_ cool."

His make-believe game was interrupted by a familiar voice around the corner. Alfred flattened himself to the wall, smirking as he eavesdropped shamelessly.

"I'm serious! You look almost _exactly_ like John Lennon! Before he grew that beard, 'course. But you do! You've even got the nose!" England's strident tones rang through the hallway. Another well-known tone replied.

"That's funny. Do I?" Russia's innocent, amused giggle sent a jolt of terror through Alfred's heart. His mouth dry, the American began creeping as silently as possible down the hall.

"Yes, you do. I mean, you're blonde, and Russian, but—stop laughing! I'm serious! It's almost creepy." Alfred realized he was leaning against a door, and shoved it open. He staggered into the room, and looked around. Bright lights. White tiled floor. His own red face looking back at him with fear in its eyes. Good. The bathroom.

Alfred pushed open a stall door, thankfully barely able to hear the noises of England and Russia's conversation outside. He flipped the toilet lid down and sat. His watch told him he only had twenty minutes to wait. He pulled his sneakers up on the seat and waited.

It was ten minutes later in linear time and an eternity in Alfred's mental time when someone pushed the door open. He paused, fiddling with the unlit cigarette in his hand. The footsteps clicked nearer, and Alfred realized the stall door was unlocked. The steps stopped almost directly in front of him. A vein of ice ran through his stomach. It melted in relief as the other person turned on the water. Evidently, they were only washing their hands. Alfred flicked his lighter and lit the cigarette.

After a few drags, he already felt the trembling vanish from his body. He barely noticed when the person turned the water off, and ignored the strange sniffing sound, as if they were smelling the air. Then the footsteps came closer.

Alfred sat up, staring fearfully at the door. He could see a pair of dark brown boots right in front of the door. Someone took a deep breath. _It's the smoke, _Alfred realized. _He can smell my cigarette smoke. _He had a strange premonition, as if he could see right through the door, into a pair of staring violet eyes.

The door was pushed open. It creaked slowly to reveal the two to each other—terror in Alfred's soul, surprise in Ivan's face.

The Russian moved too quickly for Alfred to see, and he was abruptly hoisted off the seat into the air. Ivan was gripping the lapels of his coat, almost choking him. His eyes were glowing, bright with surging emotions. Alfred did not dare to move.

Ivan pulled him closer, and Alfred turned his face away. His heart was fluttering in his throat, and it leaped up to his mouth as he felt Ivan's breath on his bare neck. There was a tightness in his chest that kept him from crying out.

Ivan's mouth was almost on Alfred's neck. His breath was warm, deep, and trembling. His fists clenched tighter on Alfred's lapels. Alfred bit his lip, trying not to look into his eyes, denying his feelings.

He was suddenly thrown forcefully to the ground, and Alfred felt his lenses snap. Catching his breath, he heard the footsteps run away. He opened his eyes. Without his glasses, the closest thing he could focus on was the dropped cigarette on the floor.

He lay there, staring at the cigarette among the broken glass, until his body stopped protesting Ivan's flight.

He was late for his ride.

* * *

><p>Okay! Here's another chapter for y'all! There was a snowstorm on Saturday, so basically the entire town lost power...Thankfully, we got a generator hooked up so we have heat and glorious internet. [worships] Anyways, please review!<p> 


	23. Anything You Can Do

***WARNING*** Secks. And mention of violence.

* * *

><p>His hands ran up and down his bare sides, sending tingles of fiery pleasure through his body. He could feel him inside him, <em>there,<em> such a physical presence that it almost made Canada faint. The burning, throbbing, _sensation_ was just about too much. He barely managed to keep his vision clear, though it barely mattered in the darkened room. His lover bent to down to kiss him, sharing their bittersweet saliva until they needed to breathe.

Denmark stopped thrusting just long enough to stare into Matthew's eyes, and whispered, "_Mathias…_" Matthew smiled and reached up weakly to pat his wild wheat-colored hair. "I love you," he said in Danish.

"I love you too," Matthew replied. As he leaned up to kiss him again, he murmured, "Don't stop." Magnus obeyed him, and soon their noises ran the risk of being detected by other inhabitants of the house.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, Matthew was awakened by the sound of one of America's movies downstairs. He sat up in bed, and listened. Alfred was yelling, true, but he was only yelling at the movie.<p>

The young nation cast a glance at his current lover. Magnus was still asleep, his blond hair even more disheveled than usual. Matthew smiled. He liked the Nordic. True, he was brazen and rude and more than a little horny in public, but as a lover… He was kind. Accepting. Adoring. He listened. Nothing like Gilbert… Prussia had been narcissistic, only bothering to have sex with him for his own pleasure. A little shudder of revulsion passed over his skin at the thought, and he wondered how he ever could have been in a relationship with someone like that. He tucked his knees under his chin and waited for an epiphany.

None forthcoming, he stood up and stretched. The light of midmorning cast its warm yellow glow on the room. Matthew stumbled over to the dresser and pulled on a pair of loose sweatpants emblazoned with the symbol of the national hockey team, and then rummaged about until he found the matching red-and-white t-shirt. He posed in front of the mirror for a minute, and then heard Alfred calling for him.

"Hey! Mattie! Hey Mattie-Mattie-Mattie—"

Denmark sat up in bed, his hair sticking up in all directions. "Whasshapen'?" he slurred.

"I'll be right back," Matthew promised, briefly leaning across the bed to kiss his nose. "You can sleep." Magnus collapsed willingly as soon as Matthew sat up, and the Canadian smiled fondly back at him. He dashed down the stairs to Alfred's call.

* * *

><p>"What do you want, Al?" he asked serenely as he sat down on his favorite chair.<p>

"Eh…not much," America said, his cheeks going a little red. "It's just…. well…. I want your advice," he said quickly.

Matthew raised his eyebrow in disbelief. "You want my advice," he repeated. Alfred nodded. "You—the United States of America—want my—Canada's—advice. Are you drunk?" he asked, and then fell over laughing.

"Mattie!" Alfred admonished, blushing and scowling. Matthew rolled over on the couch, holding his stomach in. It was all so _hilarious_—Alfred's embarrassed face, the entire situation…

Alfred grabbed him and hauled him upright, glaring severely at him. Matthew noticed that his eyebrows were blond, too, and this only made him laugh harder for some reason. "Shut up!" the American hissed, and shook him. "I just saw Russia off in Europe, and…we had an interaction. _I don't know what to do,_" he enunciated clearly. "And I'm asking you for help, so _don't make a big deal of it,_ you stupid motherfucker!"

He let go of Matthew, and he collapsed back. The Canadian sat up slowly, keeping one eye on his brother. He ran a hand through his hair and straightened out his clothes before asking, "So, what happened?"

It took a while to get the full story out of Alfred, for the narrative was repeatedly punctuated by bursts of tearful sobbing or cursing. But, as far as Matthew could tell, Alfred had been conducting some business with Turkey (he was unwilling to divulge what sort of business) when Russia and France had showed up. "Probably shopping," Matthew had mused aloud.

"They were _spying_ on me! Obviously!" Alfred had spat. Matthew merely had shrugged and allowed his brother to continue. Russia had went up to Alfred and started "putting the moves on him", whatever that meant. Alfred had repeatedly refused him, until… Here he'd pulled up his shirt to reveal a large, blotchy blue-green bruise on his torso.

"He pulled that fucking pipe out of nowhere and fucking _hit me_ with it! Right in the fucking stomach!"

Matthew had examined it closer. "Ouch. That's not good. I think you have some broken ribs." Alfred had shooed him away and went on. France had pulled Russia off of him, and somehow convinced the angry communist to leave. Before they had, however, Russia had looked straight at America and said, _you can't hold me off forever, dear America._ Alfred recounted this and shuddered.

"It was so goddamn creepy, dude."

Matthew nodded noncommittally. "Mm-hmm. So," he began, getting right to the heart of the matter. "It's obvious he still loves you."

"Yeah, but he doesn't have to be so freaking psychotic and creepy about it," Alfred snapped back.

"Shouldn't you just give him a chance? I mean, he was a lot nicer when you were nice to him…"

"You saw where it got me and Liet!" Alfred crossed his arms and curled up in an irritated ball. Matthew let the air out of his lungs in a single long, whooshing breath. _They fit each other,_ he thought. _Both much too childish for their own good._

* * *

><p>Russia sat down in the seat Cuba gestured to, and accepted the cigar that was offered him. He pulled his lighter out of his pocket and lit the cigar as he talked. "I understand that you are…not happy with the treatment you have received from dear America."<p>

"Of course I ain't _happy_ with it," Cuba snarled, sitting down and shoving aside his boss's papers. He was obviously uncomfortable in his neat suit, but his eagerness to please his stronger ally won over his chaotic nature. "It would be great if you could…arrange something that could give me a chance to get back at that asshole."

Ivan smiled. "I believe that I can do more than arrange something," and he took out a small plastic box from his jacket. This he placed on the desk between them. Cuba leaned forward, awe in his small dark eyes.

"Is that…"

"Only if you cooperate," Ivan said, and was pleased to see Cuba nod desperately.

"You don't have to worry about that, Mister Russia. I'll do whatever you ask."

"Good." Ivan took an enjoyable drag on the cigar, and stood up. "You can build it wherever you please. Just don't do anything with it without my permission, and…keep it a secret from America." Mentally blocking out Cuba's frantic affirmations, he walked to the door. Just before opening it, he turned back. "Oh, and dear Cuba?" The island nation had been reaching for the keys in their small black box. As Ivan's eyes fell on him, he snatched his hand back and sat down. The Russian smiled.

"These are some excellent cigars."

* * *

><p>Okay, here it is! Chapter 23! (Wow. This is so long.) Oh the <em>tension...<em> Anyways, please review!

(The K/S fanfiction is...being worked on. Meaning, I am procrastinating. There is also other commitments, but I promise that I will do something with it. Probably edit the meeting and start on the second chapter. Don't give up on it yet!)


	24. Crisis

"Out of my way!" America, his heart hammering in fear, shoved the humans aside and ran through the corridors of the large building. Red lights flashed and sent reflections careening across his glasses.

He stopped in the large, well-lit conference room and glanced sideways at his boss. "What's happened?"

His boss turned to him. "It's Cuba. He's got nukes. We don't know how, but he's threatening to use them."

Alfred looked up at the screens arranged across the front of the room. "I don't see him."

"Russia called fifteen minutes ago. He said he would try to convince him to calm down…"

Alfred crossed the room to look at all the nations he had on speed-dial. The advanced technology was one of the advantages he had thanks to his superpowers. Humans had some trouble using it. He chewed his lip, and then decided to call Turkey.

"America! What d'you want?" The Asian nation was lounging against a satin couch. There were several luscious girls in revealing silk dresses around him.

"Cuba's showing off his nuclear missiles," Alfred said through his teeth. "If yours are armed…turn them off. Even if they're not. Just turn them off. If World War Three starts, I am not going to be blamed."

Turkey leaned forward, his eyes going wide behind his mask. "Turn them off?" he said incredulously. "_Turn them off?_ I hope I heard you right when you said Cuba had his own."

"_Turkey,_" Alfred snarled. "I will get my agents to turn them off and neutralize you if you don't yourself."

A pink tongue slithered out of Turkey's lips as he licked them mockingly. But he eventually gave a conceding nod and shut off the call.

Alfred breathed a cold sigh of relief.

* * *

><p>"<em>Cuba,<em>" Russia snarled. "Stop. Threatening. America. Do you want to start World War Three?"

Cuba spat. "I don't care as long as that asshole stops treating me like shit!"

Ivan took a deep breath. "I am sure he will—you have made your point. Now _put the missiles down._"

A snarl flickered across the island nation's face before another alarm went off: incoming call. From America.

Ivan picked up. "Yes, dear?"

Alfred's face was pale, painfully so. He looked desperately at Ivan—right into his eyes. Ivan felt the contact and a quiver went through his body.

"We need to stop this."

"Yes." Ivan nodded. "But how?"

Alfred bit his lip. "I don't know. Turkey's barely listening to me."

"Cuba hasn't backed down."

There was a pregnant pause.

Alarms were still going off. A tingle of worry had not yet faded from Ivan's spine. He stared into the burning, terrified blue of Alfred's eyes until the tension in his body was almost unbearable.

"I guess… I guess we're the only ones who can stop this." Alfred finally looked down.

Ivan nodded and stared at the ceiling, his mouth dry. "Together."

He turned around in his chair and called his boss over. He emerged from the shadows in the back of the darkened room and asked what they were going to do. Ivan was dimly aware, of Alfred doing the same on the other side of the world, a few inches away on a screen. He explained that negotiations had to start between their two leaders. WWIII was in danger in starting; there was nothing else they could do.

* * *

><p>Ivan wished he could hold Alfred in his arms.<p>

Alfred wished he could fly to Ivan's.

The tension and fear that rushed through the room was overwhelming. The negotiations had been going on for hours. Both bosses were as desperate to stop the crisis as the nations, but the differences between the countries were holding them back—

Ivan wanted to run. This was awful. What was worse, he could feel the terror making the voices inside his head gabble fiercely. They said to kill, kill everything that was making him afraid, just _end it._

He grabbed his head and thought desperately, _Shut up, shut up. _Someone giggled in his mind. He was uncomfortably aware of Alfred's eyes on him.

Ivan looked up, saw the tears, saw through the tears, and ran…

…He was running through cold, pure cold, with someone firing at him from the distant wooded ridgeline. He glanced back, and called Finland's name—"Tino! _Tino!_"

The sniper made their shot, and a blazing fist struck Ivan in the shoulder. He fell, watching hot blood seep into the snow. He didn't stop calling out, though.

"Tino! Please, come back!" He licked his lips. There was blood. "I love you—please! Would you really abandon me for… for…"

He couldn't continue on—the taste of blood was burning his mouth. The cold was biting his fingers, cheeks, nose. He lifted a shuddering hand to wipe away blood from his lips and shouted with a hoarse voice for Tino to come back to him.

But it grew warm all too fast, and he realized he hadn't even seen his killer's face.

* * *

><p>Alfred charged to the door, shouting after Ivan. He had just screamed, <em>screamed,<em> and ran crying out of the room. He glanced helplessly back to the bosses and saw them still talking. "I have to go after him," he said to no one in particular, and one of the guards looked at him.

He scowled at him, and ran.

_Run, Alfred, run, _he thought hysterically. _FUCKING RUN._

* * *

><p>The battlefield was wide and empty. No one had died on it. Yet.<p>

Ivan stared out over it, looking at the little patches of trees, the rolling hills. "There could be so much blood," he said sadly in French.

A smaller nation, his gaudy uniform painfully bright, slipped out of the trees to stand next to him. "What a wonderful battle it will be."

Ivan spat onto the ground and did not answer.

"You don't think this war is glorious?" Francis smirked at him. "My Emperor has won almost all of Europe. England has abandoned you—turned his attention to the upstart brat. Prussia and Austria are long since subjugated." He paused to give the Russian time to respond. No answer forthcoming, he leaned in to whisper into Ivan's ear. "You can share it all."

Ivan smiled, and turned to look at Francis. Their noses were almost touching. "Why would I want to do that?"

Francis stepped closer. "You loved me once. And did I mention 'almost all of Europe'?"

"What a tempting offer." Ivan allowed his hand to steal around Francis's. "But don't I have Siberia?"

Francis showed his contempt through an elegant toss of his head—too noble to snort. "You only populate it with criminals and peasants. I have _Paris._"

"Hmm." Ivan purred, deep in his throat. He heard Francis's breath catch in his throat—close, they were close. He leaned in to bring their lips together. The kiss started light, but they steadily pressed their mouths together, pushing deeper with their tongues. Ivan could smell Francis's perfume—it made him light-headed.

And then he heard a horn call.

Francis abruptly pulled away and kicked Ivan to the ground. "I'm sorry, but this is a day we must face each other." There was a rasp of steel being drawn from a scabbard, and Ivan ground his teeth.

_"Again_," they hissed together.

* * *

><p>Alfred dashed through the corridors, trying to find Ivan. His senses tugged at him, pulling him in the right direction.<p>

He ran up to the Russian, who was curled in a tiny ball of fear, sobbing and shaking. He reached out to comfort him, but Ivan shoved him away. He stared at him with a tear-streaked face and screamed something in Russian. Alfred thought he heard France's name.

"Ivan!" he whispered in terror. Ivan stared back at him, then crouched down and _screamed._ It was a pure scream of primal horror, the sound of a small child experiencing death for the first time. The sound ripped into Alfred's heart. Sobbing, he choked Ivan's name again.

The scream faded, and Ivan took a breath to begin again, but Alfred slid forward across the tiled floor. He grabbed Ivan's shoulders quickly before the Russian had a chance to flee.

"Ivan," he whispered. "Calm down. It's okay. You're with me…!"

Ivan started screaming again, but he reached out and clutched Alfred. His arms felt as though they were going to crush Alfred. He screamed into his shoulder, tears wetting his jacket. Alfred was crying too, but he held Ivan close to him, not going to let go.

Alfred didn't let go, not even when Ivan's screams suddenly faded and his body grew cold.

* * *

><p>"Sir! …An agreement has been reached!"<p>

Alfred looked limply up at the ceiling, smiling. "You hear that, Ivan… We did it… We've done it." The weight in his arms dragged down, and he grinned through his tears.

* * *

><p>Oh my god. I am so sorry that I have been absent from this story for so long, that this chapter probably sucks (I didn't look it over too much and it's been so long since I've written anything for this)... Anyways, I hope you like it! I'm probably going to wrap it up soon, next chapter maybe.<p> 


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